


If Wishing Made It So

by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Series: If Wishing Made It So [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputation, Artist Steve Rogers, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Lawyer Natasha Romanov, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, POV Multiple, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Skinny Steve, Slow Build, genie Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 09:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 29,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6652381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern Winter Soldier AU where Bucky is a genie who became HYDRA's Asset.</p><p>When HYDRA found the Tesseract they also found a genie in a bottle. Knowing a genie's wishes are a trap that will turn and bite you, they used the power of the Tesseract to enslave the genie. It cost them three wishes but it bought them an Asset with power greater than any human and for 70 years they used him to work HYDRA's will on the world. </p><p>Until they lost him. </p><p>His bottle washes up on a beach and he's found by a new Master, Steve Rogers. Steve, horrified at having absolute power over someone, has a very different approach to being in control of a genie.  While Bucky waits for his new Master to show his true colours they're trying to work out how to live with each other. Bucky doesn't trust Steve, Steve's friends don't trust Bucky, and no one realises HYDRA has not let their Asset go so easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Dream On, Dream On

**Author's Note:**

> I started off writing an I Dream of Jeannie AU. A short, cracky, I Dream of Jeannie AU. It was going to be called I Dream of Bucky. Someone was going to slip on a banana peel. I'm not sure how it went off the rails and became this, but here we are. I have played pretty fast and loose with genie mythology and basically scavenged from all over the place. 
> 
> A couple of things: Bucky does not actually get called Bucky until Chapter 7, so if you could bear with me until then, that would be fantastic. It should make sense in context. I chose San Francisco because I've only been there and Reno in the USA. If you live there: sorry if I stuffed up your city! Please presume any differences are due to the presence of magical creatures and forgive me. 
> 
> Chapter lengths vary greatly. Warnings are in the tags.

The genie was aware that humans existed in the same way he was aware that ants existed. They both crawled on the earth, living their lives under the sun and the moon, and they both had the same impact on his life: none.  Unlike some of his kind, he bore them no particular malevolence nor any particular good will.  He didn't find them fascinating nor view them as a scourge to be wiped out.  He...disregarded them.

Until the day he was travelling through the frozen north of the world and came to the attention of a great magician.

Until the day he—who had always disregarded humans, never interfered with them, never taken physical form to engage them in cruel games—was lashed tight in chains of silver and ice, unfamiliar magic he didn't know and couldn't fight. Was captured and shoved into a magic bottle.

It was often the fate of his kind: the malevolent ones, the ones who acted against humanity. It should not, he raged as his mind screamed in horror, have been his.

Moments later, he felt an irresistible pull, was dragged back into the physical world, into a physical body with a human shape. When he tried to strike out at the magician he found he could not. Even with all his mustered will, he was forced to bow his head. "Master."

He was bound to the bottle, bound to whoever held it and summoned him, bound for the duration of three wishes, then banished back.

He couldn't harm his Masters, but the granting of three wishes took precedence over the compulsion not to harm. And, as he soon discovered, humanity was stupid and greedy and vile and he was bound to give them _exactly_ what they wished for.

 

* * *

 

After a thousand years, his bottle came to rest in a monastery in a small town called Tønsberg, a town that would come to be occupied by Germany in a war that would cover the world.  The monastery was home to more than one artefact, and an obsidian bottle, coated in dust, was hardly the most interesting.  When Johann Schmidt and Dr Arnim Zola came to claim the Tesseract they stumbled over the bottle and, inspired by who knows what sinister influence, they took it.

And so they found themselves in possession of a genie and three wishes. For all that they were evil, and there was no doubt they were truly evil, he could see it coating them like slime, they were not stupid.

Tales of tricksters and demons and, yes, even genies, were part of the common consciousness; they knew three wishes were a snake that would turn and bite them. But they had the Tesseract, an unlimited and otherworldly source of power, and Dr Zola, whose expertise roved sideways into the occult.  They took the Tesseract and the genie, the genie who could not protect himself, who was bound to never harm his Master, and they twisted the power of the wishes. 

He was bound to a physical body, so they carved off part of his flesh. They severed his left arm at the shoulder—the left side, the sinister side—and rendered flesh and bone and blood to use in their magic. With the power of the Tesseract they forged a metal arm that took the infinite _potential_ of the wishes and mutated it, remade it into something they could control. 

Inside the metal arm were complex runes, inscribed in the blood and ash that were all that was left of the flesh and bone they had cut from his body. They bound him first to never act against a servant of HYDRA. Second, to obey his Master. Third, they gave his Master the power to repudiate him at will, to banish him Masterless back to the bottle.  The Tesseract let them create an immortal slave, much reduced in power from an uncorrupted genie, but still far beyond that of any human.

When they cut off his arm his screams echoed through the building and the rats fled in terror.  When they affixed their abomination in its place, driving its metal into his flesh and bone and its magic into everything he was, his screams were such that pigeons roosting in the rafters dropped dead from their perches. 

He no longer had infinite power, the ability to twist the world on its axis, to alter the fabric of reality itself to grant the wishes of his Master. Instead, his power was muted, lessened, but it was no longer limited by any amount of wishes; his neutered power would remain at the command of his Master forever. 

His bottle changed, too, a chunk of obsidian transmuting into metal, as if it had broken and been crudely repaired.

Throughout it all he was helpless to protect himself.  A genie cannot turn on his Master.

 

* * *

 

They named him Buchanan, after the scotch, one inebriated celebration after he'd unleashed his muted powers on prisoners at a place called Azzano. "Because you come out of a bottle too," one HYDRA servant had said, obviously finding it hilarious. The name had stuck.

Before they'd mutilated him, twisted him, his bottle had been his respite. He was bound to it, it was a symbol of his capture, but inside had been a kind of solace, away from humans.  Now it was dark and cold, like being frozen, every second spent inside an eternity.  Once he was sent back to it, he could not leave until his Master once more called him forth.

The only thing he feared was the bottle. Genies could not die, but he thought the bottle must be like dying.  

 

* * *

 

He was passed from one HYDRA servant to the next. Some were ordered to repudiate him to be passed to another Master; some died or were killed.  It didn't affect him; one human Master was much like another, all good and loyal servants of HYDRA, differing only in their peculiarities.

He fought back the only way he could, with a sly tongue and a quick mind, until he was forced to silence.

HYDRA's tentacles flowed through the world like ink through water into every facet of humanity. Slow, measured, careful. It was easy to infiltrate even the most alert of organisations when you had a genie who could make it seem as if your servant had always been there. 

As technology advanced, it became more difficult. Human minds were weak.  Computers had much more definite ideas about the shape of the universe.  More and more they sent him out to kill, to terrorise.

He was their Asset and he could reach into a human body and stop a heart, stop the brain, send a vehicle spinning into destruction, create explosions from nothing. He could simply appear in a locked room, on top of a building, in the deepest jungle or the remotest desert. More and more this was what they used him for.  HYDRA prized order, but order, it seemed, was often bought with the price of a little chaos.

He was a rumour, a ghost, a whisper of death in the darkness and he could not be stopped.

 

* * *

 

Even the most long-sighted of organisations can fall victim to bad luck.  Buchanan's bottle was being transported to a new Master when the plane's engine failed over the ocean.  The pilot was very good at her job, but there's only so much human skill can do against physics and chemistry and the greedy pull of gravity.

The plane exploded, littering debris across the ocean's surface. Including the bottle.  The indestructible bottle.

The waves soon carried it to shore. Dirty, coated in mud, it came to rest in the shadow of a rock, hidden from sight.


	2. Findings

The beach was almost completely deserted, which suited Steve perfectly. He needed long shots over the sand and close up shots of the rocks for these reference pictures. Most of the time he could find what he was looking for in stock photo databases, but this client was very particular.

He wanted _this_ beach and _these_ rocks.

While Steve knew _the customer is always right_ was one of the biggest loads of bullshit ever floated, he also knew the customer was always the one with the paycheque. If this specific beach and these specific rocks would make him happy, Steve would make it happen.

Being a freelance artist had a lot of perks; one of the drawbacks was the need to make sure his clients stayed happy. It wasn't usually hard; his clients tended to like him. As his foot landed in a tidal pool, soaking one shoe and his jeans to the knee, he groaned. Sometimes they didn't make him very happy. He sighed, shook his leg, making water drops fly, then scrambled up a few more rocks to get a better view.  He sat, to squeeze excess water out of his jeans and take a puff from his inhaler, letting his pulse settle, letting his joints rest. He was pretty much okay, as long as he was careful, but he tried not to fuck around with his health.

This was the perfect angle, finally, and he took dozens of photos of the ocean, the rocks, long shots across the beach.  When he was satisfied, he stowed his camera and started to pick his way back down the rocks. A flash of light, something shiny reflecting the sun, caught his eye.  There was something stuck between two rocks, a dark shape that was reflecting the sun in a bright line. Steve changed direction, intrigued.

"Shit!" He slipped on a rock and landed hard, pain flashing as barnacles tore a ragged gash down his left forearm. "Goddamn it," he muttered, examining the wound. It wasn't too bad, deep but short, and only took a few minutes to patch up with the first aid kit he always carried. When he was done, he looked around for the object that had caught his eye.  It was still there, dark and muddy. One foot squelching, limping slightly, he walked over to examine it.

It was a bottle, black and filthy. It looked like it had broken and someone had very crudely tried kintsugi on it, using silver instead of gold. Steve kind of didn't want to pick it up, because it was caked in mud, but there were elegant lines visible under the dirt; it deserved better than to be left here.

He finally dug a plastic bag out of his messenger bag, used that to pick up the bottle, then wrapped it up and tucked it into his bag.

 

* * *

 

It took two buses to get back to his apartment.  Steve was still getting used to it. He'd only been in San Francisco for two months, had chosen the city because it held his friends. Natasha had left New York first, lured away by one of California's most prestigious law firms. Riley had proposed to Sam (beating Sam by a matter of weeks, something Sam still bitched about) and they'd moved permanently to Riley's home in San Francisco instead of shuffling awkwardly across the country.

Nothing had been holding him in New York after his mother died and so he had come here. Natasha had helped him find this place, owned by one of her clients. A spacious one bedroom, he'd been in love the moment he'd seen the golden light flowing in through the floor to ceiling windows.  Sure, it was at the very top of the building and the elevator never worked, which meant he was panting and reaching for his inhaler by the time he reached his front door, but he could afford the rent and there'd been room for him to convert part of the open living area into a studio.

He dumped his stuff next to the door and plugged his camera into the computer, then grabbed his phone when it buzzed. The text from Natasha read:

_Burgers tonight, usual time, usual place? Riley's away and I'm sick of Sam's moping._

Steve snorted a laugh, because while Sam was in all other respects the definition of a badass, his moping over Riley was legendary, and texted back:

_Count me in. I've got some work to do first, but I'll be there._

_Good_ , was all he got back.

After disinfecting the gash on his arm—which stung like hell—and deciding it would do better left open to air, he made a cup of coffee, then went back to his computer, settling in with his tablet and throwing his reference pictures up on the second monitor. 

Several hours later, back aching, shoulders aching, eyes sore, arm still stinging, he did a final save of his work and stood. Checked the time. Decided to take a look at the bottle he'd found on the beach.

He pulled it out of his messenger bag and carried it over to the sink. As he unwrapped it, clods of formerly caked-on dirt fell off. He set in the bottom of the sink and began brushing dried dirt off the surface.

There was an explosion. He was stumbling across the kitchen, shoved backwards by a force he couldn't see, smoke filling the room. He hit the table, caught his balance and rebounded onto the couch, looking frantically for the fire, but the smoke was already dissipating.

In its place was a man. Tall, aggressively black-clad, all leather and straps, dark hair falling over his face, eyes flat like a shark. His left arm looked like _metal_ , glittering with its own weird light, a red star like a slash of blood at the shoulder. There was no expression on his face. He was the scariest person Steve had ever seen. And he was standing in his apartment.

The man bowed his head. "Master."

Steve could do nothing but stare.  His momentary flash of fear was starting to morph into anger. He had the distinct feeling someone was fucking with him. His hands curled into fists.  "Who the fuck are you?" he demanded.

The man's head swivelled from side to side, studying the apartment, flicked back to rake Steve up and down. Steve felt like he'd been torn open. "Buchanan."

"Buchanan, right. And what the hell are you doing in my apartment?" His anger was rising, pushing the fear aside completely. He pulled himself to his feet.

A look flashed through Buchan's eyes, there and gone, that said he thought Steve was an idiot, but his voice was flat. "You summoned me out of the bottle."

"What. The. Fuck." Hands balled into fists, Steve advanced, stopping in front of him, having to glare up, because the man was taller and a hell of a lot bigger and he had a metal arm—and part of Steve was just boggling over that because _metal arm, who the fuck has a metal arm_ —but Steve was angry enough not to care.  "What, like you're some kind of genie?"

"Yes."

"You're a genie."  Steve was furious. He was being fucked with, he knew it. He figured this was going to turn out to be some sort of new reality show. _How gullible can someone be?_ or _How much will one idiot swallow?._ It was the only explanation that made sense and those only worked if the victim's friends set him up. The thought that they'd do that to him was feeding his anger.

"Yes." That look again, like Steve was too stupid to live.

"Okay, you're a genie? Then I wish you would heal this," he challenged, pointing at the gash on his arm.

***

Buchanan exploded out of the bottle, out of the cold and the nothingness, into...

He had no idea what this was.  For the first time since he fell into HYDRA's hands he arose from the bottle into something new.   He was in someone's home, the home, he assumed, of the small increasingly angry man. One glance was all he needed: blond hair, blue eyes, slender, short. Easy to kill, even by human standards, but the bond was sunk deep into him, a chain of ice locking them together.

He was Buchanan's new Master.  He must not be hurt, whispered the old binding. He must be obeyed, demanded HYDRA's twisted new one.

 _I wish_ were the old words, but the compulsion to obey recognised them as a command.

He couldn't hurt his Masters, but hurt could be a flexible concept when filtered through the mind of a genie and he was angry after having been in the bottle for so long. Trapped in the cold and the dark.   

Quick as thought, he had his right hand locked around his Master's wrist in an unbreakable grip. He ignored the way his Master flinched away, followed him as tried to escape. Not hurting, never hurting, just holding. When his Master's knees hit the back of the couch and he abruptly sat down he used the tiniest spark of power to heal the injury. When he was finished, he let go and stood still.

***

Steve knew he was about to die, strangled to death by a deranged serial killer who thought he was a genie. He'd wondered what they'd write on his tombstone, wondered if he'd see his mother again, wondered who would miss him.

He tried to pull away but the grip was like iron and his attempt just landed him on the couch with the man looming over him.  He was getting ready to go down swinging when he realised the blank-faced stranger wasn't actually hurting him, was distracted by a point of heat in his arm that abruptly cut off as the stranger's hand released him.

"What." He stopped, shaky from the adrenaline sliding out of his veins. He stared at his arm where there had been an ugly gash, rubbed the spot which was now new skin, exactly the same as the rest of his arm. Poked it. Scratched it lightly with his nail. Drew in a deep breath with lungs that wanted to tighten, then another. "What did you do?"

"I healed you. You said 'I wish you would heal this'." There was almost an emotion there, the first one Steve had heard, and it sounded like exasperation. "So I did," he added, as if to be sure there was no misunderstanding.

Steve was rubbing the spot on his arm like a worry stone. "Could you back up a bit?" He was far too close for Steve's comfort. He could still feel the strength of that grip, even if it hadn't hurt him.

Buchanan did, moving back three feet.

Steve was not a stupid man. Far from it. He was also not given to flights of fancy. He'd never succumbed to the temptation to believe in aliens, fairies, guardian angels, lizard people or conspiracy theories of any stripe. But he was also not someone to subscribe to wilful blindness. His arm had just been healed; even the most advanced special effects couldn't duplicate that. This...person had appeared, _literally_ _in a puff of smoke_ after he'd rubbed a bottle. And healed him.  Literally, actually _healed his arm._ Okay then. Either he'd hit his head when he'd fallen on the beach and was currently in a coma, or...

"You're a genie."

Buchanan, with an unmistakable air of impatience, inclined his head.

"So I guess I just used one of my wishes?" he asked, with a sort of helpless laugh, because this was insane.  

A flicker of something dark and cold passed through Buchanan's eyes, something that stole away Steve's laughter, made him want to flinch and look away. It didn't belong on anything human. "I'm not that kind of genie."

"Oh." Steve's knowledge of genies came from exactly two sources: Disney movies and sitcoms from the 1960s. None of them had prepared him for this, this more than slightly terrifying looking man with the cold eyes and the glittering metal arm. "I didn't know there were different kinds." He was so far out of his depth he was drowning. "If you don't grant wishes, what do you do?"

"I do whatever you tell me to do to the limits of my power, Master."

He flinched, everything in him recoiling. "Steve."

Buchanan looked at him questioningly.

"That's my name. Steve. Not Master." In the middle of everything that made no sense, the tectonic plates of his world view shifting sideways beneath him, _this_ at least was absolutely clear. _Master;_ _god, that's sick._ "I'd appreciate it if you didn't call me that again. Ever, preferably." 

"You want me to call you Steve," he said flatly, like he wasn't sure Steve was quite in his right mind.

"Instead of Master? Yeah, I think so," Steve replied, not meaning to sound quite as sarcastic as it probably did. His thoughts were doing an excellent imitation of a hamster in a wheel, spinning and spinning and getting nowhere. He was having to fight the intense urge to bang his head on the wall, see if that would make any difference. He suspected it wouldn’t.  The problem was too big. Six foot and looming even from three feet away, staring out at him from under a fall of hair. And maybe, possibly, probably, mythical.

His phone buzzed, making him jump, and he whipped around to look at it. Walked over to pick it up, happy to put extra distance between himself and the whatever-it-was in his apartment. _Genie_ , his mind supplied _, he's a genie._

It was from Natasha, only two words. _You're late_. He took it for the reprieve it was. Steve as a general rule didn't run away from his problems. This once could just be the damn exception.

"Will you be okay here on your own for a few hours?" He took the dark look as agreement. "Okay, so you stay here, just stay right there. We can deal with this when I get back." Buchanan watched him, eyes once more blank, and Steve supressed a shiver. He grabbed his jacket, shoved keys, wallet, phone and inhaler in his pockets, and left, shutting the door firmly behind him. 

 

* * *

 

"Steve, hey, over here."  Sam waved from his booth in the corner. There was a purse sitting next to him Steve knew wasn't his, so Natasha must be somewhere around.

Steve lifted a hand in greeting, beyond relieved to see him, solid and real. "Hey, Sam," he said. He plastered a smile on his face. Everything was fine, there definitely wasn't a possibly mythical person in his apartment. He didn't even know what to do with that, he sure as hell wasn't ready to try and start explaining it to anyone else. So, smiling and pretending it hadn't happened. He could do that.

Unfortunately he'd forgotten this was _Sam._ Who was eyeing him thoughtfully. "Do I want to know?"

Steve winced. "If I say no are you going to let me get away with it?"

"What are we letting him get away with?" Natasha dropped to sit next to Sam, reaching over to ruffle Steve's hair. He ducked away, feigning annoyance, and batted at her hand.

Sam just gestured at Steve's face and Natasha tilted her head. "I see."

"What, am I wearing a sign that says I don't want to talk about something?"

"Yes," they replied in unison, and Steve groaned.

"I don't know why I bother."

"Frankly, neither do we," Sam replied, "but I've got to give you points for persistence."

Steve was saved by the waiter arriving to take their orders. He didn't need to look at a menu, simply ordered his usual, and by the time the waiter had left, knew what he was going to say.  "Look, I'll tell you about it when I've figured it out myself, okay?" Steve was a terrible liar; he was pretty sure he was only going to pull this off because there was no way in hell he was _ever_ going to figure this one out.

It was eerie, the way they had a silent conversation entirely in raised eyebrows and tilted heads, but they finally nodded. "Acceptable," Natasha told him. "But just this once."

Steve breathed a sigh of relief. The next hour and a half, he managed to put it out of his mind and enjoy the time with his friends. Maybe when he went home Buchanan would be gone. It would all turn out to have been his imagination. Or maybe all his stuff would be gone, Buchanan having been the front man for an elaborate gang of thieves. Either would be a relief.

 

* * *

 

Steve returned home to find Buchanan standing exactly where he'd left him. Exactly. Steve didn't think he'd shifted so much as an inch. "Have you been there the whole time?" he asked in disbelief.

That flat gaze pinned him in place. "You told me to stay right here. You're my Master. I have to do what you say."

"Fuck." Steve shoved his hands through his hair. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I didn't mean you couldn't move, that you had to literally stand in that exact spot. You can sit down, or do you have to use the bathroom? Is that something you, uh, do?"

Buchanan's eyes glittered. "No."

Guilt was crawling up Steve's spine. "Would you like to sit down?" he asked, gesturing at the couch.  "If you want. You don't have to."

 ***

It was not the first time he'd been left standing in one place by his Master. It was not the first time he'd changed his Master's body, though generally that involved making things bigger. Sometimes much bigger. It was the first time since he was bound to the bottle in the frozen north of the world that his Master had asked him to call them by a name.

The absolute strangeness of it had knocked all his anger away. 

Even if he hadn't been forced to stand in the exact spot where he'd been left, he might still have been standing there when _Steve_ had returned. He'd been turning it over in his mind the entire time he'd been gone, trying to work it out.

Obviously, this was not HYDRA. Steve was not HYDRA. No servant of HYDRA would ever allow him to address them by name.  How HYDRA had lost him, he didn't know and he didn't care. However it had happened, he no longer served them. It woke a fierce, wild joy. By the blood and ash runes scribed inside his metal arm he was still bound to obey his Master, but he was free of them.

 _What_ exactly he was now bound to remained to be seen.

Steve was looking at him expectantly. "I'll stand."

"That's fine, you can stand, or sit. I don't—" He scrubbed his hands through his hair, rubbed them over his face. "Are there rules? You need to tell me so I don't fuck up again."

This was information he'd prefer not to give, but he felt the bond tighten, compelling him to answer. "I can't hurt you. I'm bound to obey you. If you give me a command I have to comply. "

"What happens if you disobey?"

He looked at Steve like he was stupid. "I _can't_. It's not an option."

" _Jesus_."

Buchanan was very familiar with the range of human emotions. He'd seen them up close and personal over the years, so he recognised the horror on Steve's face. He wasn't sure why being presented with a magical slave would evoke it, but he recognised it. 

"I won't do that." Steve was almost vibrating with emotion, intent gaze fixed on him. "I'm not going to make you to do things you don't want to do."

"Of course you're not," he said flatly, contempt slicing through his voice like a blade.

"I'm _not_. That's one of the worst things I can think of, making someone do things against their will. I'm not going to do that to you. I wouldn’t do that to anyone." His expression was eloquent in its earnestness. If Buchanan hadn't had a thousand years of wishes and seventy years of HYDRA to teach him that truth was what lay inside a human's desires, not what came out of their mouths, he might almost have believed him. He inclined his head, expression carefully blank. Steve didn't look satisfied, scowling ferociously. "Well, can I set you free?"

"You can't free me." He smiled, sharp and angular, teeth bared. "I'm bound to you until you repudiate me or you die."

"What about that, can I do that? What happens if I repudiate you?"

Buchanan went cold and his hands curled into fists, the metal of his arm creaking with the pressure. "I go back in the bottle until someone else summons me. Then I get a new Master."

"Is that something you want?"

"No." One Master was much like the other, but to be stuck back in the bottle, left there for however long it took for someone else to find him...he didn't want that. _Except this one wants you to call him by name,_ part of him pointed out. _He said he won't command you._ _He asked if he could free you._ Because he's obviously a liar or an idiot, he answered back, and hasn't figured out what he has yet. He'll catch up.

"Then we won't do that," Steve said. " _Is_ there something you want?"

It was a calculated risk, could backfire to let him know how much he hated the bottle.  Possibly a risk worth taking. "The bottle. I don't want to wait in it when you don't need me."

"No bottle, okay." He said it soothingly, making Buchanan stare at him strangely.  "Should I, do I need to do something with it?"

"No."

"Do you want me to...put it away?" Steve's eyes were clear and blue as they studied him.

He looked over to where it was sitting in the sink, chunks of mud coating it, the silver of its mutilation gleaming dully. "Yes."

Steve didn't hesitate. He walked over to the sink and shoved the bottle into a bag, then wrapped it up and stepped back, eyeing the cupboards. He looked at Buchanan. "Could you, no." He stopped, obviously reordering his thoughts. "If you don't mind, would you please put it in that cupboard?" He pointed a finger at the cupboard above the fridge. "I'm not tall enough."

He'd carefully phrased it to be a request. Buchanan took the bag from Steve and his fingers wanted to pull away from touching the bottle, even through the cheap plastic. He shoved it as far back into the cupboard as he could reach. The light click of the door shutting sparked a sense of relief. He truly hated the dammed and damnable thing.

"What happens now?" Steve asked.

What usually happened now was whoever HYDRA had selected to be his new Master would force him to perform increasingly petty and vile actions, establishing their dominance. Which was hilariously stupid and so very human, because he was _bound to obey._ He would bend himself to making them pay for it. He couldn't lay hands on them, couldn't hurt them, but he could use his tongue like a weapon, respond with slyness and clever words. Inevitably, he would be silenced but it was satisfying for as long as it lasted.

Before HYDRA, whatever unlucky human had the misfortune to summon him forth and receive the mixed blessing of three wishes would be scheming to make their life infinitely better, to wring the very most from their sudden windfall. Now? He had no idea. He didn't answer, just raised his eyebrows slightly.

"Okay. I'm not exactly set up for houseguests, but the couch is softer than it looks. Will that be okay? We can figure something else out tomorrow. And that, uh, outfit doesn't exactly look comfortable to sleep in, but nothing I have is going to fit you, so..."

"I don't sleep." It wasn't a command, not even a request, but. He lifted one finger and his HYDRA uniform, the leather, the chrome, the heavy boots, were gone. He took his cue from Steve for lack of anything else. Soft jeans, a soft red shirt, long sleeves covering his metal arm, feet bare. "Clothes aren't a problem." He wiggled his toes. Seventy years since he'd worn something besides the uniform. He found he liked the way it felt.

Steve's eye were huge. "I...can see that. Right." He huffed a laugh that seemed directed entirely at himself. "And you don't sleep, of course not. Why would you sleep? Okay, in that case I have Netflix. That should at least keep you from getting too bored?"

Again, he didn't reply, simply looked at Steve, who hurriedly showed him how to use Netflix, then segued into giving him a tour of the apartment, talking the whole while.  The tour didn't take long, the apartment mostly consisting of one huge open space, divided by furniture. When he finished, Steve stopped in the middle of the living area and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Well, I'm going to go to bed. You'll be all right out here on your own?"

He inclined his head.

Steve blew out a breath. "Right," he said, then said it again, shook his head, scrubbed his hand over his face, then walked into the bathroom. When he came out, he paused, stared at Buchanan as if making sure he still existed, said, "Good night," then disappeared into his bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him.

Buchanan waited, waited to see if he would suddenly reappear and demand...something. Anything. When that didn't happen, he moved to stand at one of the tall windows, staring out into the night.


	3. Humans Make Terrible Coffee

The sun was streaming in through the floor to ceiling windows, washing the apartment in gold. Buchanan leaned against one, looking out over the world. He'd been standing there, still and silent, since Steve had gone to bed, watching the people, the lights, crawling through the city like ants.

He looked over his shoulder as he heard the bedroom door open.

"Oh." Steve stopped dead in his tracks and stared. His hair was sticking up in six different directions as he slouched in drawstring pants that hung low on his slender hips and a loose t-shirt with a picture of monkey on a unicycle. "Oh, you're real."

"I'm real," Buchanan confirmed. "Did you think you dreamed me?"

"I kind of did." Steve rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Do you want coffee?" he asked, making his way into the kitchen.

It took him by surprise. "Yes?" he finally replied. He didn't have to eat, he didn't have to drink, his physical body sustained by magic, but he could. Steve didn't seem to notice the delay, was very focussed on measuring coffee into a machine, pouring water, and generally doing things to create coffee that he could have summoned in less than a second.

Steve leaned back against the counter, eyes half closed, as he waited. Buchanan was pretty sure he actually dozed off. He jerked awake when the machine beeped demandingly and grabbed two mugs. "How do you take it?"

"However." Steve nodded, poured out two coffees and doctored them with milk and sugar. He shuffled over to thrust one at Buchanan, then continued to shuffle over and collapse into the overstuffed chair beneath one of the windows.

Buchanan looked at the coffee in bemusement. It was the first time a human being had ever made him coffee. It was the first time a human being had ever made him anything. He sipped it, then grimaced. Human beings made terrible coffee. A quick touch turned it into something that was actually drinkable.

Steve didn't seem to have a problem. He was sipping his coffee with every evidence of enjoyment, gradually becoming more alert.  "You're real."

Buchanan fought an urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, I'm real. Do you want to feel me?

"No." Steve's ears went slightly pink. "I don't need to feel you. Thanks, though." He sipped his coffee. "Right, so all of that actually happened yesterday."

"Are we going to do this every morning?" he asked dryly, curious to see how Steve would react.

Steve seemed amused. "Maybe the first couple."

He pushed a little harder. "You could write yourself a note, stick it on the door."

"And what's it going to say? 'Steve, there's a genie in your living room?' They'll be calling the men in white coats to take me away."

He was amused in spite of himself. "Are you sure they haven't? Maybe I'm not actually here."

"You keep telling me you're real."

"Isn't that what a hallucination would say?"

"You offered to let me feel you," Steve pointed out.

"Maybe I'm a very sophisticated hallucination."

"I don't know how far gone I'd have to be to imagine you," Steve said, with a little snort of laughter. "If I was going to hallucinate a genie I think I'd have gone with the traditional. You know, three wishes and all, not a smartass with a metal arm."

The half-smile dropped off his face and he went still.

Steve's smile faded. "I shouldn't ask about your arm?"

Buchanan simply looked at him, eyes cold.

Steve winced and raised a hand in a placating gesture. "I won't ask."

After a long silence in which Buchanan drank more of his coffee and Steve drank some of his swill that passed for coffee, Steve asked, "Do you want to know anything about me?"

He lifted one shoulder, not really concerned. Humans would talk about themselves forever with little encouragement.

"I'm twenty four, I've got some health problems but they're under control as long as I'm careful, and I draw pictures for a living," he said awkwardly, then chuckled and rubbed his forehead. "I feel like I'm filling out a dating profile. Badly."

"You're an artist?" That was almost interesting. Before HYDRA, his bottle had fallen into the hands of more than a few artists and they had, inevitably, all wished for the same thing.

"I do advertising and design work, some character design, some illustration. Freelance, so it pays the bills but that's about all, but it means I can work from home. From anywhere, really."

It was so prosaic. A tiny, meaningless human life. Buchanan had met them a hundred times, had heard the lament of not enough money and too weak bodies and three wishes spent to fix them. Three wishes that inevitably went terribly, horribly wrong, with no one to blame but human greed. 

Steve was talking about art, about his art, about why he chose to be an artist, but Buchanan wasn't really listening. He was bound to _obey_. HYDRA had used his powers to perfect their servants, eliminating physical weakness, repairing defects. He had fixed Steve's body once. Steve knew he had power.  Not enough money, a less than perfect body. Already he could see where the temptation would come, the desire to be better and richer and _more._ He wondered how long it would take.


	4. Be Careful What You Wish For

It had been a week since what Steve had taken to thinking of as G-Day, and he was starting to sort of, maybe, almost get used to Buchanan. If he didn't think about it too much. He wasn't sure his mind had quite got a handle on the whole _actually a genie_ thing.

An actual genie. 

It would have been easier to believe if he'd looked anything like popular culture said genies were supposed to look, but no. Most of the time he was padding around the apartment in bare feet, in jeans and shirts or soft sweaters, of which he seemed to have an endless supply. _Of course he does; he's a genie. He just snaps his fingers and they appear out of some cosmic wardrobe._

It was harder to remember his word was literally law. Steve spent so much time composing what he was going to say before he said it, looking for anything Buchanan would have to _obey_ , he sometimes thought it would be easier to stop talking altogether. It made him sick to think of it. _No one_ should have that sort of power over another person and, genie or not, there was no doubt Buchanan was a person.

He sighed and looked up from the computer. Right now, thoughts of genies and people and possible cosmic wardrobes needed to take second place to the fact that, even in the infinite recesses of the internet, Steve couldn't find a stock photo with the pose he needed. He was getting vaguely motion sick from flipping through image databases.

He glanced over to where Buchanan was sitting in the chair under the window, one leg thrown over the arm, reading. 

He didn't want to ask Buchanan for things, was wary of doing anything that would smack of even trying to make him obey, but he was kind of perfectly posed already and as long as he chose his words carefully..."Buchanan?" He looked up from his book. "Do you think I could use you as a model? I need to draw something specific and I can't find what I'm looking for."

"Do I need to be naked?" he asked, smile sharp as he stared back at Steve.

For a few brief seconds _highly_ inappropriate images flashed through Steve's brain, because genie or not, Buchanan was attractive. The careless way he was slouched in the chair highlighted the strength of his body, the light from the window flowing across the smooth muscles of his right arm like golden honey, the silver reflections from his metal arm dappling his face, emphasising his inhuman stillness. From the look he was giving Steve, he was pretty sure the genie had picked up on Steve's thoughts. His ears went pink. "No," he said quickly. "How you are now is pretty close to perfect, if you put the book down."

"You can draw me." It felt like being granted a favour, some distant king deigning to grace Steve with a boon.  

"Thanks," he said and pulled out his sketch pad and pencils. He walked over to where Buchanan was sitting, moved around in front of him, examining the angles, then sat down on the floor. This was what he'd been looking for. "I just need you to stay still. If you don't mind," he added quickly, to make it clear it was a choice.  

He was very aware of Buchanan's eyes on him as he began to draw, roughing in the shapes.

"Can I talk?"

"Yes, but please don't move your mouth too much."

He stayed silent for a long time as Steve worked. "There's a lot of history with genies and artists."

"Is there?" Steve was distracted, pencil moving smoothly across the paper.

"Why do you think so many aren't famous until _after_ they're dead?"

Steve lifted his head and stared.

"They always wish for fame; they never specify when they want it to happen," he said, a cat with a canary tone, a hint of vicious satisfaction in his voice.  

Steve kept staring.

"They get _exactly_ what they wish for. If they don't specify..." He smiled, brief and flashing, all white teeth.

Steve swallowed. Buchanan was still beautiful, staring down at Steve, but his eyes were sharp and strange. He felt his heart speed up. He knew Buchanan couldn't hurt him. He wasn't sure his body, reacting to the sudden bone-deep understanding that Buchanan truly was not human, believed it. "Suddenly I'm glad you're not the three wishes kind of genie."


	5. interlude

_A HYDRA base, somewhere in Europe_

"What do you mean you can't find it?"

"I mean we can't find it."

"It's a genie's bottle. How many of those can there be in the world?"

"Uh, more than you'd think, probably, but, no, okay, yeah, that's not important. Sorry, Sir. But that's the problem, there's nothing actually special about the bottle unless the genie's _in it._ "

"...are you saying it's not in its bottle."

"Uh, maybe?"

A glare.

"Definitely. If it was, we'd be able to find it."

"So someone else has control of the Asset."

"It...seems that way?"

"Then can you track its magic?"

"You'd think so, but..."

"But?"

"But there's no sign that it's using any. At least not enough for us to find."

Silence. Then, "Someone has it and is not using it."

"Maybe?"

"Pierce is going to kill us."

"I know."

"No, you don't. I'm not engaging in hyperbole. I'm not exaggerating for effect. If we don't find the Asset he is actually going to have us killed. We will die. So reach out to whoever you have to and find someone who can find it."

"Yes, Sir."

"Hail HYDRA."

"Hail HYDRA." _  
_


	6. We've Gotta Get Outta This Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you don't know what a durian is, it's the world's stinkiest fruit. Think rotten mushy onions and dirty socks. It's been banned on some subways for its smell. A lot of people think it tastes pretty good, though.

Buchanan broke his fixed stare over the cityscape as Steve came through the door. Steve's face was red, his eyes bright, and his hair was tousled. He was panting, had to use his inhaler, but he was beaming.

"Have fun?" Buchanan's voice was flat. He was going mad, trapped inside this tiny apartment, staring out at the city he couldn't reach while Steve came and went and still hadn't let him leave. He wanted to claw the walls down. His HYDRA Masters would exercise petty control but then they would send him out to kill, to terrorise, to work their will. They would send him _out_. He never thought he'd miss HYDRA.

"It's gorgeous out there," Steve replied, happy and light. "The weather's pretty damn close to perfect."

"Is it?" It came out bitter when he hadn't meant it to and he went still.

Steve stopped and studied him, eyes very blue as they met his, smile fading. "Is something wrong?"

"You trapped me in here, you've proven you control me. I'm completely in your power. Can we be done with it now?" His tone was low and biting, his face a study in contempt.

"What are you talking about?" Steve was blinking in confusion.

Anger curled through his gut. "I can't leave this apartment."

"Why?" he asked, looking and sounding even more confused. The look Buchanan shot him was withering. Steve walked slowly over to stand in front of him. "You can leave whenever you want. You don't have to stay here. You know that, right?"

It was like bursting free of black water into open air. He wanted to gasp as the compulsion broke. "Until you said that? No I couldn't. You told me to stay here. After I came out of the bottle, you told me to stay here.  I couldn't leave."

Steve's expression twisted. "I'm sorry." He scrubbed a hand over his face and into his hair. "I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't even know I said it." He reached a hand out, as if he was going to touch him, then curled his fingers and pulled it back. "You're not, you don't have to stay in here. You can go out whenever you want."

He looked down at Steve, who was looking up at him so earnestly, and felt the flame of anger die down. "I know now." Maybe he should have asked. He'd never thought to ask, never thought that leaving it in place hadn't been deliberate.  

"You have to--" Steve's teeth snapped shut. "No. If I do it again, please tell me. I didn't do it on purpose. I promise you. If it happens again? I fucked up. It would be good if you told me I fucked up and I'll fix it."

The flame of anger puffed out completely. "I'll tell you if you fuck up," he promised solemnly and Steve smiled. "But I'm going out now." He lifted an eyebrow in challenge.

"Of course. Go, take your time, do something fun. Do you need money or anything?"

"Really not necessary," he replied and disappeared.

He returned several hours later, the clawing need to escape no longer ripping through him, and tossed Steve a mango. "Here." It was perfect, fresh, and the stem was still leaking sap.

Steve stared down at it, then up at him. "Where did you go?"

His smile was bright and wide and satisfied. "Out."

 

* * *

 

It changed something between them. 

Steve became even more careful with his words; Buchanan could see him rehearsing sentences in his head before he spoke. 

Buchanan had a kind of freedom. Even though the chain that bound him to Steve would always bring him back, he could travel the world, escape from the presence of humans, escape to the still deserts and the deep forests, although there was almost no place left in the world free from human presence. He could choose. He could breathe.

He did not go to the frozen north.

If there was a chance he would be seen by humans, he covered the metal arm with an illusion. Its visible presence had been an important part of his work for HYDRA. Now, it was simpler to make sure human eyes couldn't see it.

Most times, he found himself returning with something for Steve. It became a game to find the oddest thing he could, to provoke a reaction. His desperate desire to be gone eased as he gradually came to _believe_ that Steve truly wasn't going to make him stop.

It also meant that Steve never left the apartment without making sure Buchanan knew he was welcome.  The first time and the second and the third, he said no and waited for Steve to make him come. Steve had just shrugged and left without him. The sixth time, he rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance; went back to what he'd been doing. Steve, sounding amused, had called him a rude asshole, surprising a snort of laughter from him. After that, he stopped counting, but he always said no. 

Until, standing at some strange crossroads of deep seated mirth at Steve's wordless horror when presented with a durian and the brimming sense of satisfaction at his almost-freedom, he said yes.

He was now entirely regretting the momentary impulse.  "It's a bus."

"Yes."

"You want me to get on a bus."

"That's how I get places."

Buchanan's lip curled in disdain and he gave Steve a pointed look. Which was ignored. Steve handed him a rectangle of plastic. He took it and held it between two fingers as if it was a partially decayed rat. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Tap it on the pad so they let you on the bus."

"So if I don't tap it they won't let me on?" he asked, sounding much more positive about the whole day.

"If you don't want to come with me you don't have to come with me. But I'd like you to. And that means we have to take a bus."

Actually, it didn't mean taking a bus at all. Buchanan could have them there in a few seconds. It didn't seem to occur to Steve that this was an opportunity to use his powers and _offering_ them was not something he'd ever done. Of course, he'd never been faced with the temptation of _not getting on a bus_.  He weighed it up, considered simply refusing to go, looked at Steve, who was looking back at him so hopefully, then sighed, not really sure why he was doing this. "I'll get on the bus."

It was not as awful as he'd been expecting, but it was still a bus. He had standards and a genie on public transport was ludicrous. Steve seemed happy enough, looking around at the other passengers, fingers twitching like he wanted to draw them. 

When they arrived in the Mission District and escaped the bus he shook himself all over, like a dog shedding water, pointedly ignoring Steve's amused look.

Steve wasn't the only one taking photos, not even the only one sketching, but most of the milling crowds were tourists, some in pairs and some in herds. Loud, bright, rude, shoving and pushing, and Buchanan loathed them.

Herds attract prey, on the plains and in the cities. Steve was lost in taking his photos, making quick sketches and notes in his book, paying no attention to anything else.  He didn't have the protection of a herd, was alone, Buchanan having wandered away from the tourists to lean indolently against a post some distance away.

The bond forged by the bottle between a genie and its Master didn't require him to _protect_ , only to _not hurt_.  An obligation to protect would have meant saving humans from their greed-induced stupidity, which would have made it near impossible to ever grant a wish. 

HYDRA had made Buchanan a predator. He recognised others when he saw their greedy eyes pick Steve out of the crowd, deciding he was a likely target with his small stature, his distracted focus.  He watched, tracking their movements, body still and relaxed where he was leaning against the pole.

Considering.

Steve was on the fringe of the crowd, slightly out of view of the masses, but there were enough people around it was doubtful he'd be seriously hurt. He'd probably lose only a few possessions, only get a little roughed up.

Unexpectedly, he was angry. He could picture it, bruises on that fair skin, blood where it would split, because Steve might be smaller than average, but Buchanan knew he would fight. When they began their final approach, he found himself strolling over to stand next to Steve.  When Steve lowered his camera, he casually threw an arm around his shoulders and felt the eyes turn away in search of easier prey.

Steve jumped like a rabbit, eyes wide and shockingly blue, then huffed in annoyance and frowned.  It was highly entertaining, helped wash away the flash of anger.  Steve was standing impatiently under his arm, a warm, unyielding line against his body, and Steve tilted his head to look up at him. Buchanan gave him a bland look in return. Steve narrowed his eyes, like he was going to push his arm away, like he was going to tell him off. Instead, all he did was huff once more, hand Buchanan his camera, and let his arm stay where it was while he made quick sketches in his book. 

 

* * *

 

Drawing that irritated reaction out of Steve became one of Buchanan's favourite pastimes.  It was fun to rile him up and watch him go, like a wind-up toy that huffed and puffed. It was easy enough to do, poking him, ruffling his hair, generally making a physical nuisance of himself.

As endlessly entertaining as Steve's reactions were, he knew they weren't the only reason he was doing it.  He was doing it to see if Steve would force him to stop.

Steve would huff, roll his eyes, shoot him _what the fuck_ glares, but there was a dry edge of knowledge underneath, a hint of understanding that said _I know what you're doing,_ and Steve seemed content to let him continue doing it forever.

Steve hadn't commanded him to do anything. Hadn't used his powers, hadn't demanded riches or beauty or health or vengeance. Hadn't even used him for small conveniences. He didn't quite believe it, was still waiting for to Steve to realise what he had under his absolute control.

He found himself doing things on his own, using his powers to make things easier. Small things. Found himself _arguing_ with Steve about it. It was baffling.

_"Did you do something to the elevator?"_

_"Your puffing was annoying."_

Steve had let that one go, because everyone in the building had benefited. But there'd been a tense standoff over the milk. _The milk._ Steve kept forgetting to buy more and then drinking his coffee black, which upset his stomach. So he'd made sure it didn't run out.

_"I can buy milk."_

_"But you don't."_

_"That doesn't mean you have to magic it up."_

_"I could magic up a cow instead."_

_"Fine. We'll keep the milk."_

As time passed, Buchanan kept poking at Steve, but it took on a hint of ritual, his touches seeming to ask, _Did you mean it?_ and _You know how to make me stop._ And Steve would react as expected, but he would be nonchalant beneath it, as if replying _I meant what I said_ and _I'm not going to make you stop._

Even against a thousand years of wishes and seventy years of HYDRA, he was starting to believe.


	7. By Any Other Name

Steve wasn't sure when he started thinking of him as _Bucky_. It just kind of fell into his head one day.

It wasn't _Buchanan's_ face he found his hands sketching when he wasn't paying attention. It wasn't _Buchanan's_ arm that would find its way around his shoulders in a crowd, whose provocative quicksilver touches had somehow become a wordless conversation.

Buchanan was a name of slowness, of ponderous gravity. _Bucky_ was all sharp angles and grace. It fit him.

He kept _Bucky_ in his head, because...because it _wasn't_ his name and he wasn't going to give him a new one.

But he couldn't stop thinking it.

 

* * *

 

 _Why_ , Steve wondered, _do I do this to myself?_   Clare was a good client, she was a great client, and she was a good person, and it was not her fault that her project had been screwed six ways to Sunday. But why, oh why, had he agreed to this short a deadline, one he knew he'd have to work all night to meet?  

He'd been working since nine AM, it was closing in on one AM, and he was flagging hard. He reached for his coffee and took a sip, desperate for the caffeine kick. It was cold as ice. "This is disgusting," he muttered and took another sip, because desperate people don't get to be choosy.

Buchanan walked over and held out his hand. "Give me that." Steve passed it over obediently and he handed it back, steaming hot.

"Thanks, you're a lifesaver." Steve gulped it down, then stretched, wincing. He was exhausted and his back was aching, shoulders throbbing, from working for so long.

Buchanan was still standing over him, wearing a distant expression, the one Steve had learned meant he was thinking something over. "You need to get this finished tonight."

"And no one to blame but myself. I shouldn't have promised. But I've known this client a long time and it wasn't her fault she got stuck in this mess." Steve gave him a quick smile, then bent back over his tablet, wincing a little. 

He jumped when he felt Buchanan's hands on his shoulders.

"Hold still." 

By this point, he was used to Buchanan touching him but this felt different. His hands were warm, the metal fingers cooler but not cold, and they were wrapped around his shoulders, exerting the gentlest of pressures, holding him in place. This felt serious.

"Okay," he said quietly. He wasn't prepared for the wash of heat that swept through him. Buchanan pushed him forward so he could run one hand down his back and the heat followed. Steve had to close his eyes. His muscles were going limp, lax, as the tension and the pain washed away. He was warm and languid, very aware of the hands on him as the only point of contact with the world. He wanted to protest because he had to work, he couldn't fall asleep, but the words wouldn't come. 

Gradually, the warmth faded and he felt a bubbling fizz take its place. His eyes popped open. His mind was jolting awake. He sat up straight, filled with energy, like he'd had eight hours sleep and downed an entire pot of coffee.

"Bucky," he whispered, awed, as his hands fell away. "What did you do?"

"Took away what was making you tired, making you hurt, and gave you a little kick that'll keep you going. It's going to last about eight hours and you're going to fall on your face when it wears off. Now answer a question for me?"

"Anything."

"Who the hell is Bucky?"

Steve ran back through what he'd said and winced. "Oh. Sorry, I've been calling you that in my head for a while. Like a nickname. It just slipped out."

"You can call me whatever you want. It's kind of how this," he pointed between them, "works."

"No." Steve's eyes flashed, all the energy that had been poured into him bubbling to the surface. "I'm not calling you something you don't want me to."

He was silent, then cocked his head. "Why?"

"Why what? Why did I start calling you that?"

He nodded.

Steve picked at a loose thread in his jeans. "It seemed to suit you. More than Buchanan. But like I said, I won't call you that if you don't want me to."

He was silent, standing over Steve, eyes very deep as he considered Steve's words. "You can call me Bucky."

"You sure?"

He rolled his eyes and gently poked Steve's shoulder. "How about, I _want_ you to call me Bucky."

Steve broke into a smile. "Okay. Bucky."


	8. interlude

_A HYDRA base, somewhere in Europe_

"Okay, let's look at this logically."

"Yes, Sir."

"We can't find the bottle because it's not in it."

"No, Sir."

"Which means someone has summoned it out and is now in control of it."

"Yes, Sir."

"But we can't track its magic, because whoever summoned it isn't using it."

"Uh, probably, but that's just a guess. We don't actually _know_. I mean, it could be concealing its nature."

A beat. "You think that it's concealing its nature. You don't think the fact it came out a _fucking bottle_ would be a dead giveaway?"

"Whoever summoned it could be blind?"

"Let's leave that for the moment, shall we?"

"Yes, Sir."

"What about its arm. It's a unique magical artefact, right? Nothing else like it in the world?"

"Yeeesssss..."

A sigh. "But?"

"But a metal arm is very distinctive. So about fifty years ago someone decided it would be a good idea to protect it against scrying. Against all scrying. Against all magical detection, actually."

"Even ours?"

"Uh, yes. Sir."

"Genius."

"Yes, Sir. No one ever thought it would fall out of HYDRA's control."

"Well, I guess we know better now."

"Yes, Sir."

"Hail HYDRA.

"Hail HYDRA."


	9. I Don't Think It Works Like That

"What if I just ordered you not to do what I said?" Steve asked.

They were walking through Clarion Alley, surrounded on both sides by the glorious murals that graced the walls. There was a new one going up today and Steve had wanted to come down and watch. It was always fascinating to see them take shape. That this was one of his favourite places, somewhere he could be surrounded by colour and art and the passionate expression of people's lives, was just a bonus.

"Or ordered you to only obey me if I said a certain word?" he continued

He'd been thinking about this a lot. The constant fear that he was going to fuck up, a repeat of trapping Bucky in the apartment or worse, gnawed at him.

Bucky stopped walking and stared at him. "Really, Steve?"

"What?" he asked, slowing to a stop. "Wouldn't that help?"

 "It doesn't work like that."

"No?" he asked, heart sinking a little.

"No. There's no," Bucky waved his hand in the air, "reverse safeword option. You can't just say 'nothing's an order unless I say petunia' and then order me around and I don't have to obey. The magic's smart. You can't fool it like that."

"Oh. Right." He managed a half smile. "It was just something I was thinking about."

Bucky threw an arm around his shoulders, starting to walk again. Steve shot him a mild look of annoyance and matched his stride, Bucky slowing his steps to make it easier.  

As they neared the milling group of people—an obvious pack of tourists expanding the numbers beyond what Steve had expected—standing behind a roped off area, he felt Bucky's arm tighten slightly. As they stopped at the edge of the crowd, he was ready for the slight tug that pulled him against Bucky's side. 

It wasn't a surprise. This was just what Bucky did if they were in the presence of enough people. The first time, in the Mission District, Steve had nearly jumped out of his skin; now, he was used to it. Would miss it if it stopped, although he carefully didn't look too closely at why. The size of the crowd dictated exactly how much of Bucky would find itself around Steve.  A large enough, or rowdy enough, bunch of people and Bucky would plant himself behind Steve, one arm around his shoulders, like a large, warm, unyielding wall. 

Steve kept his eyes on the artist, watched the bones of the mural take shape, but he couldn't help slumping a little, disappointed, some of the brightness gone out of the day. He really thought his idea had been a good one. He felt Bucky looking at him but he kept his eyes facing forward.

"You really thought that would work, huh?"

"I know, it was stupid," he muttered.

"No. I mean, yes, it was, but," Bucky paused, and when he resumed, Steve had the feeling he was carefully searching for the right words, possibly words he'd never said before, "it was...kind."

Steve looked up at him. "Yeah?"

His eyes had that distant, strange look, the one that forcibly reminded Steve he wasn't human. Steve had a moment of feeling pinned down, a butterfly on a display board, no way to escape and nowhere to hide. Then Bucky's eyes warmed and the feeling faded. "Yeah, it was a nice idea."

It chased away the disappointed feeling, made him smile up at Bucky, whose lips quirked in response. He nodded his head towards the artist and Steve returned to watching him, leaning a little into Bucky.


	10. Beneath the Skin

Steve was entirely to blame. He knew that. He knew _better_. Clare had come through with a bonus for pulling her ass out of the fire with his all-nighter. Steve had succumbed to the lure of art supplies he didn't need and would probably never use. Including a large box of very expensive chalk pastels.

He knew better than to use them without a mask, but he wasn't intending to do anything serious when he'd laid a broad sheet of paper on the kitchen table. He was only going to test the colours, get a feel for how they'd blend.

He didn't realise how long he'd been working with them, Bucky's face coming to unintentional life under his hands, until he started to wheeze. The dust from the pastels was filling the air and he was an idiot.  He just needed his inhaler. In the time it took him to remember where he'd left it his wheezing got worse; his lungs were tight and he couldn't pull in a breath. Bucky appeared next to him. "Steve."

"S'fine," he got out. "I just need my inhaler."

Bucky opened his hand and held it out. As Steve took it, breathing deep, Bucky closed his hand and the dust disappeared from the air. Even after a few puffs, Steve's lungs were still tight and Bucky, with a dark look, put a hand on his shoulder and he could breathe again.

"Oh." He let his hands fall into his lap, looked up at Bucky who was looming over him, scowling.  "Thanks."

"What happened?"

"My fault. I got distracted, shouldn't have been using them," he nodded at the box of pastels, "without a mask."

Bucky's expression made it very clear what he thought of that and Steve held up a hand. "I know, stupid. Won't be doing that again."

"Good." Bucky leaned back against the table, staring thoughtfully down at Steve. "You know I can fix you."

"What?"

"I can fix you. You just have to command me and I can fix the things that are wrong with you."

Anger roared up Steve's spine, hot and sudden. His eyes narrowed. "I'm not broken," he said and he glared up at Bucky.

"Parts of you don't work properly."

" _That doesn’t mean I'm broken._ " He pushed up from the chair to storm across the room. He whirled to face Bucky, who was watching him warily. "I'm skinny, too, and short. Why don't you make me tall and strong, give me muscles like you have, give me a movie star face."

"I could do that," Bucky replied, standing very still.

"Well I don't want you to and I don't want you to _fix me_ ," his voice rose on the last two words, "because I'm not fucking broken, I'm not defective. This is who I am. I'm me, with all the bad bits and all the good bits and all the bits that maybe don't work as well as they should and I'm not changing any of it."

He drew in a ragged breath, and another, feeling the pull on his lungs. Locked eyes with Bucky for a long moment, then turned and strode into his room, slamming the door behind him.

***

Bucky stared after him. He didn't really understand what had just happened. He understood Steve was furious, but he didn't understand _why._ He'd never _offered_ those changes, but they'd been wished from him, been ordered by HYDRA, so many times.   

For a long time, he stared at Steve's closed door. Steve was wrong, he decided. He was definitely defective. It had nothing to do with his body or his face. There was something wrong with his _head._ When one human behaved in one way and every other human being he'd met in a thousand years behaved in another the only conclusion he could draw was that the _one_ was defective.

Bucky looked down at the table, at the picture Steve had been drawing, and realised it was a picture of him. He was still staring at it when Steve's door opened half an hour later.

He seemed calmer, his eyes steady, and he walked over to stand in front of Bucky. "I'm not apologising."

"Okay."

"But I'm not mad at you. You thought you were doing something nice, right? Trying to help?"

Bucky nodded. It wasn't precisely right, but even he didn't understand exactly why he'd made the offer.

"A lot of people over the years have treated me like I'm, I'm _less_ because of," he gestured to himself, "because of who I am and what I look like, because I'm not tall and strong, because I've got a couple of things wrong with me." He glanced down, then back up. "But I'm proud of who I am, of everything I am. I won't change that."

Bucky took that in, held it up against what he knew. Finally, he said, "Humans always want to be bigger or better or prettier. They want to be healthier or stronger or faster. Whatever they are or whatever they have they always want more." Bucky's brief smile was sharp and his eyes were cold. "And they always take it. _Always._ Congratulations. You're the first human who didn't."

"The first."

Bucky nodded slowly.

"Really the first?"

Another nod.

"I don't know what to say to that."

Bucky tipped his head sideways, studying Steve. "I don't think there's anything wrong with your strength," he said. "Or your body. Or your face." He paused, and his eyes warmed. He reached out to put a hand on Steve's head, curling his fingers a little into his hair.  "It's your head I'm not so sure about."

 

* * *

 

It was late that night when he figured it out. When he understood where the impulse had come from, to _offer_ his powers to fix...No. To _change_ Steve. 

Steve was asleep. Bucky was standing at the window looking out over the city. The faint sound of Steve's breathing was barely audible through the bedroom door.

This illusion of freedom he was living, this tenuous, delicate illusion of freedom he was clinging to, rested on Steve. Steve, who was as fragile and mortal as every other human being.

Everything Bucky had, more than anything he'd had in over a thousand years, could be taken away in a heartbeat.

He needed Steve to live. To be safe.

Bucky walked over and laid his right hand, his hand of flesh and bone and blood, against Steve's door. 

This one small human who defied everything he knew humans were had become his touchstone.

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the door. If he stayed that way until morning, he was gone from the apartment before Steve woke up.  When he returned, laughing and offering Steve a dragon fruit for breakfast, he behaved as if nothing had changed.

 

 

 


	11. You'll Have to Speak Up, I'm Wearing a Towel

One of the things human beings had gotten exactly right was the shower. They were warm and peaceful and there was something good about being immersed in the constant flow of water.  Constant flow of _hot_ water, because Steve's apartment now had an unlimited supply.

When Bucky finally stepped out he was instantly dry and in the next thought instantly dressed, and the shower was dry, the bathroom free from humidity. He was considerate that way. He could hear Steve's voice and he opened the door to see he was talking to someone on the computer, a friend not a client, judging by the casual language.

Sometimes a spirit of mischief possessed Bucky. His clothes disappeared to be replaced by a towel, slung low over his hips, a few drops of water artfully placed on his body, his once more damp hair curling around his cheeks and over his neck. He dropped the illusion over his metal arm and then sauntered out into the living area, making his way slowly over to stand behind Steve.

He stopped close enough that Steve would be able to feel the heat from his body. Bucky watched Steve's friend's jaw drop on the monitor as he caught a glimpse of Bucky over Steve's shoulder.

"Sam, what?" Steve asked, sounding puzzled.

Sam lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head to indicate Steve should look behind him. "Something you want to share with the class there, Steve?"

Confused, Steve turned around, eyes going huge when he realised he was about two inches away from Bucky's naked abdomen. Naked abdomen that Sam could clearly see. His eyes travelled up, taking in the rest of the picture, the smooth, defined musculature and golden skin, and narrowed as they reached Bucky's face. It was carefully expressionless, but his eyes were dancing. "We're out of milk."

Steve's expression clearly communicated: _What the fuck?_

Bucky's eyes were bright, practically glowing, but his mirth didn't touch his face, which remained smooth as stone. "Just thought I'd let you know. That we're out of milk."

His eyes narrowed, clearly remembering the cow conversation. "We're not out of milk."

Bucky shrugged. Steve sighed. Satisfied, Bucky sauntered off and disappeared into Steve's bedroom, which happened to be in clear view of the camera.

***

Steve wanted to die. He could feel himself flushing red.  Sam gave him a very pointed look. "Uh huh and who is that?"

"That's Bucky. He's, ah, staying with me."

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

"Sam!"

Sam grinned at him. "Hey man, no criticism from me. I may be happily engaged, but I can still tell when someone is smoking hot and that boy was smoking hot. I'm happy for you."

Steve shook his head. "It's really not like that. At all. He's staying with me, but that's it. There's nothing else going on."

"Do all your houseguests walk around half-naked before they disappear into your bedroom? I'm only asking in case I need to stay with you, so I have time to hit the gym beforehand."

"Sam, please."

"All right, all right, I'll stop." Sam held up his hands in surrender. "Your place is a little small for two people, though."

"I know, but—" Steve paused, because once again his inability to lie to his friends made this hard. "His situation, he kind of has to stay with me. So we're making it work."

"Is he why we haven't seen you much lately?"

"Sort of. It's complicated."

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "I get that, things can get complicated. But you have to make sure they don't get so complicated that you can't get out of them."

"Sam, I'm an adult. A grown up. I can look after myself."

"Steve, I know you. You are the absolute worst person in the entire world at looking after yourself. You get so busy looking after everyone else you sometimes forget there's a you to look after."

"It's fine," Steve replied. "It really is. You don't have to worry about me."

"Yeah, okay. Sorry, didn't mean to get all after school special on you."

Steve snorted. "As long as you don't tell me I have to cancel my college plans because you're pregnant and also secretly a dope fiend, I think I can forgive you."

"How did you know?" Sam gasped and pressed one hand over his heart. "Actually, I do have to go, but keep me posted, okay?"

"I will, Sam. See you."

He disconnected the Skype call, then put his head on the desk and groaned. 

Bucky came out of Steve's bedroom, fully dressed, and walked over to peer down at Steve.

Steve turned his head sideways to look at him, shaking with embarrassed laughter. "Jesus, Bucky, I can't believe you did that!"

Bucky grinned his Cheshire cat grin. "Really?"

 

* * *

 

The wind was whipping off the water, turning even his short hair into a tangled mess, when Steve heard his phone ring.  He fumbled with his bag and pulled it out. Contemplated not answering it then sighed and hit accept call. "Hi Nat," he said, leaning his elbows on the top railing of the pier and looking out over the ocean.

"I know you know why I'm calling."

"I may have an idea, yes."

"Are you going to tell me about him?"

"Tell you about who?" Steve replied innocently.

"Steve."

"Natasha."

"Sam said you're, and I quote, keeping a naked guy in your apartment."

"Nat," Steve said, secure in the knowledge that she couldn't actually smack him over the phone, "he wasn't naked; he was wearing a towel."  A couple walking past with their dalmatian shot him an amused look and he flushed and looked away. "And I really wish I wasn't having this conversation in a public place," he added in a much lower tone.

Natasha laughed at him. "Now that you've embarrassed yourself by talking about naked people in public, you should know that what he was or was not wearing is not actually what I was interested in."

"Don't you have lawyer things you should be doing?"

"I am doing lawyer things. I'm honing my cross-examination skills," she said.  

"Of course you are." He sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"I want to know about the 'naked guy'," he could hear the air quotes over the phone, "in your apartment."

"Bucky, which is his name, not naked guy, is a friend of mine and he's staying with me." All of which was mostly true.

"Steve, I know all your friends. I practically am all your friends."

"That's rude."

"It's true."

Steve had to concede the point. Sam and Natasha were pretty much the only two people in his life he considered friends. He knew plenty of people, most of them clients former or current, but when it came to bone deep friendships, it was pretty much only Sam and Nat for him. _And Bucky_ , his mind whispered _, don't forget Bucky_. "I can make new friends." He hadn't meant for that to come out so defensively.

Nat's voice softened. "Of course you can," she told him. "Where did you meet Bucky?"

Steve's eyes went wide, because he hadn't thought this through. At all. And he couldn't lie to her. She'd know. "I found him on the beach."  Technically it was true. And it sounded better than _I met him in my apartment_. Barely.

There was a beat of silence. Another. "And now he's living with you?" she asked, voice carefully neutral.  

"Uh, yeah." He winced, because he knew what that sounded like.

"What does he do?"

"He's," _a genie but not the kind you're thinking of, so he pretty much does whatever he wants; it's like living with a giant cat, really_ , was not something he could say, "he doesn't have a job at the moment."

"I see." He could almost see her making her patient face. "Are you dating him?"

"No."

"Sleeping with him?"

"No!"

"But you like him."

"No." He wished that had come out stronger than it had. "Like I said, he's just a friend."

"Oh Steve."

"Nat, drop it, okay?"

"All right. He's just a friend. That you met on the beach and brought home with you, who's living with you and doesn't have a job and, according to Sam, is smoking hot." She was silent. "Is he why we haven't seen much of you?"

"I guess so? We've all been pretty busy." He'd been busy, Natasha was never not busy, and between Sam's commitments and travelling with Riley, it definitely wasn't a lie.

"Steve, just promise me you're not doing anything stupid."

"Natasha."

"Steve."

"I promise I'm not doing anything stupid."

"Okay. For now. But we're talking about this again. And I want to meet him."

 

* * *

 

Steve knew Natasha only worried about him because she cared; same with Sam. He also knew his failure to so much as mention Bucky prior to Sam's very thorough discovery of his existence was likely the cause of their worry, since as a general rule he was pretty forthcoming about his relationships.

Not that he and Bucky had a relationship.  But someone living with him—which he probably shouldn’t have been quite so quick to confirm, damn Natasha and her lawyer ways—was the sort of thing he'd generally have shared.

It was just too big, too much chance of questions being asked that there were simply no answers for. Bucky was a _genie_ , he wasn't _human_. Even though Steve would never share Bucky's secret with anyone else, even his closest friends, he'd kept putting it off because it was just too strange. He'd _keep_ putting off the inevitable introduction because it would continue to be too strange.  He was also pretty sure Bucky had no interest at all in other human beings.

Eventually, he was going to have to come up with something, but the beauty of _eventually_ was that he didn't have to worry about it _now._

 

* * *

_Eventually_ caught up with Steve at the Farmer's Market. It was crowded, droves of relatively well-mannered people making their way in one direction, with only a few pushing and shoving against the stream.  Steve loved the Farmer's Market, the colours, the smells, the tastes. Bucky, walking close beside him, seemed less than impressed, but his sharp, watchful stare did a good job of clearing them a path. 

"Steve!"

Steve turned towards his name, spotted Natasha, and waved to her across the crowd. "Hey, Natasha," he called back as she made her way towards them. He and Bucky drifted out of the flow, so they wouldn’t block the path.   _Okay, Natasha was about to meet Bucky. This would be fine._

An overly eager market-goer charged past, would have run into him if Bucky hadn't pulled him out of the way. Just as Natasha slipped out of the crowd Bucky wrapped his hands around Steve's shoulders, pulled him back, and tucked him into the lee of his body, then casually draped an arm around his shoulders, as if holding him in place.

Steve leaned into him a little, even as he winced internally. Natasha was frowning at him, frowning at Bucky. She knew Steve hated being manhandled, being hauled around. He'd dated people who'd done it and that was enough to ensure there was no next date. But the normal rules didn't apply to Bucky and there was something so calming about being here, Bucky a warm, solid presence against his back. It was something he'd barely acknowledge even to himself; he could hardly explain it to Natasha.

"Nat, hey, how's it going? I didn't expect to see you here," he said, giving her a broad, reassuring smile.

She did not look reassured, was eyeing Bucky with disapproval, but she gave him a small smile. "Good, I'm just picking up some cheese for a thing at work." She looked expectantly at him.

"Nat, this is Bucky. Bucky, this is Natasha. She's one of my oldest and best friends."

Bucky nodded to her. "Nice to meet you. Steve talks about you all the time."

"He doesn't talk about you," Natasha replied, gaze not leaving Bucky's. "Despite my best efforts."

Bucky's eyes glittered and his smile was sharp. "I'm a very private person."

"And you're living with Steve, I understand."

"I am." Bucky rested his chin on Steve's hair. "He's been very generous."

"Yes, Steve can be very generous. Sometimes too generous."

"Steve also hates it when people talk about him like he's not here," Steve interjected.  He twisted around enough to see Bucky's face, because this was not going well. "Bucky, could you give us a minute?"  Bucky tipped his head down, meeting Steve's eyes. "Please," he added, making sure Bucky knew this was a request, he could say no. 

Bucky examined the crowd, made brief eye contact with Natasha, then nodded, before moving to stand between Steve and Natasha, facing Steve. He put both hands on Steve's shoulders, thumbs brushing into the hollows of his collarbones. Steve felt a little spark, a touch of warmth, like honey on his skin. "I'll hear you if you need me," he said under his breath then stalked off.

"Steve." He turned back to face Natasha, not realising he'd been watching Bucky glide through the crowd. "Are you dating now?"

"No, still just friends."

Natasha raised a perfect eyebrow. "He's very hands-on for just friends."

Steve breathed out a puff of laughter, because she had no idea how much of an understatement that was. "That's kind of a Bucky thing."

"And that's okay with you? He seemed a bit...pushy."

And how could he explain? How could he say, I know what that looked like? But it's okay, because it's Bucky. Because it's part of how we deal with the fact that I have absolute power over him. Because Jesus Christ I have absolute power over him and it still terrifies me because I'm afraid I'm going to screw it up. What he said was, "Nat, I promise, it's fine," and hoped she could read the truth of it. Judging by the dubious look in her eyes, she missed the truth of his words and caught the echo of the things he couldn't say.

"You'd tell me if it wasn't, right?" she asked. "You know you can tell me anything."

"I know that. How many times have you pulled my ass out of the fire over the years?"

"I'm not sure modern math has the numbers to count that high."

He snorted and she grinned at him. "How's work going?" he asked.

"You won't believe what Isdale pulled off in court yesterday. It was kind of glorious." She described the incident, hands drawing sharp emphasis, and Steve laughed as she laid out the fate of the hapless opposing attorney. 

Bucky returned as she finished the story and offered Steve a paper cup, steam curling off the top.  "Hot chocolate with enough marshmallows to choke a horse." He paused. "Theoretical only. There wasn't a horse to test it on."

Steve smiled at him, eyes too fond, he knew, and took it. "Thanks, Bucky."

Bucky nodded and moved to stand next to him, looking between him and Natasha. "You two get everything sorted out, or should I see if I can find a horse?"

"For the moment," Natasha replied, but as she looked at the cup in Steve's hands, watched as Bucky moved smoothly to put himself between Steve and a pack of carelessly roving teenagers, her expression eased slightly.

 

* * *

 

Natasha stirred her coffee very precisely, set the spoon down, and took a long sip, eyeing Sam over the edge of her mug. "I met Bucky."

"And?"

"And I don't know, Sam. There's something _off_ about him."

Sam gestured for her to go on while he doctored his own coffee. The noise of the coffee shop ebbed and flowed around them.

"I don't like how passive Steve is with him. You know how he hates people who move him around like he's a child."

"Do I ever. Boy's a pitbull in a whippet's body. Remember that woman, what was her name? The bodybuilder."

"Laura."

"Laura, that was her. I thought Steve was going to explode when she started grabbing him and hauling him around. Lucky for her he's a gentleman or she would have been on the receiving end of an epic public smack down, but that did not go down well at all."

Natasha took another sip of coffee and gave an agreeing hum. "Bucky did something similar and he didn't even react."

"Huh."

"I might have gotten a bit confrontational."

Sam gave her a wide eyed look of surprise. "You? Confrontational?"

"Shut up. Anyway, Steve asked him to give us a minute to talk and it was like," she shook her head, trying to put it into words, "like he was asking for this huge favour. Before he went, Bucky deliberately cut me off so I couldn't see what he was doing, said something to him I couldn't hear. I don't know, it was strange." They drank their coffee in silence before she continued. "You saw him with Steve. What do you think?"

"Okay, keeping in mind I'm judging by what I could see through a shitty Skype video, I can tell you he was walking around like he owned the place. And he's built. Not like a body builder, like someone who knows how to use what he's got. Steve," he tipped his head back, thinking, "Steve didn't seem bothered, but someone living with him? That's the sort of thing we'd normally hear about, not discover by accident."  He looked at Natasha intently. "What are you thinking?"

"I know Bucky doesn't have a job and I think Steve's attracted to him. I know Bucky is very attractive and seems very handsy and I know Steve's not acting much like Steve."

"You've only seen them together once."

"I know, and it's why I'm not storming the gates."

"Also because Steve would never forgive you."

"Also that."


	12. I Swear

Bucky had been in Queensland, teaching the wild flocks of cockatoos to swear. When Steve came home, however, he was sprawled in the overstuffed chair, looking expectantly at the door. His eyes narrowed when he saw Steve had a red and swelling eye, bruised cheekbone, and the shirt he had pressed against his nose was soaked in blood.

"You _know_ you don't have to stay in here all the time." Steve voice was muffled as he spotted Bucky in the chair.

"I don't. I just always know when you're about to come home," Bucky said as he stood up, stalking across the apartment towards Steve.

Steve blinked, then winced. "That's a little creepy," he pointed out, but he failed to sound even remotely upset about it.

Bucky's smile was razor sharp. "Are we just ignoring the fact you look like someone beat six kinds of hell out of you?"

"I'm fine."

Steve's face shut down, his body language closed and still. Bucky didn't really care. "Uh huh." He grasped Steve's hand to pull the shirt away from his face so he could examine his nose. "Pretty sure that's broken." A swirl of anger was rising in him. "Who did this?"

"Some punk, he was picking on a homeless man, threatening to steal his stuff. No one else was doing anything to help so I stepped in."

Bucky's nostrils flared, the only sign of a rising urge to violence. "You didn't think maybe that was a bad idea?"

"Someone had to do something." Steve pushed Bucky's hand away, sounding tired. "You can't just stand by and do nothing."

In Bucky's experience that was exactly what humans did. It was one of the defining traits that made them human.  His eyes followed Steve as he headed for the bathroom. "Where are you going?"

"First aid kit. This isn't the first time I've had to patch myself up."

Something twisted inside Bucky at the thought. "You don't need a first aid kit. You have me." Steve stopped and turned to face him. "Can I?"

Steve nodded.

Bucky carefully pressed his hands against Steve's face and sent the tiniest tendril of power into his body. "There."  He didn't just heal him. He put a link on him, so he'd know if Steve needed him, if he was in danger, if he was hurt.

Steve tentatively touched his face, becoming bolder as it didn't hurt, and he smiled at Bucky, wide and warm. "Thanks, Bucky."

"No problem, Stevie," he replied, not realising he'd used the nickname, feeling a tiny flare of answering warmth. "I've kind of gotten used to your face the way it is."


	13. interlude

_A HYDRA base, somewhere in Europe_

"Well, did you find it?"

"No, Sir. We thought we found a trace of its magic in Queensland, Australia, but it turned out to be a nest of yowies."

"What the hell is a yowie?"

"Oh, they're fascinating! They're an upright hominid, sort of like Bigfoot, but there's been sightings in Australia since the nineteenth century. They're even more common than drop bears, which aren't actually bears, they're a kind of predatory arboreal mars—"

"Stop."

Silence.

"One, why do you know so much about Australian what-ever-the-hell-they-ares?"

"I have a degree in cryptozoology. It's why they have me helping to find the Asset."

"...I can see how someone could think that was a good idea." A beat. "Two. What in the hell does any of this have to do with finding the Asset?"

"Nothing, Sir. Sorry. Uh, the witch we brought in to trace the magic thinks the yowie nest gives off a similar magical signature and that's what confused the scrying spell."

"So what I'm taking away from this is that we are no closer to finding the Asset. Despite the fact that you have been working on nothing but that task for months."

"Uh, no. Sir."

The gun shot was very loud.

"Get rid of the body. Get me an alpha team and someone competent. Oh, and go through his notes and send someone to wipe out those yowie things, just on general principle. Hail HYDRA."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm Australian. I saw my chance to use Australian cryptids and I took it. And don't worry, when the HYDRA team showed up to wipe out the yowies they quickly became drop bear chow.


	14. Revelations

Normally, when Steve got into an altercation that was the end of it. No one wanted anything to go too far, no one wanted the police or lawyers involved.  There was a certain unspoken understanding between everyone involved.

Normally.

Steve was walking home from the store. You didn't actually run out of things when you lived with a genie who'd decided to make your life simpler, but Steve enjoyed walking in the twilight, especially at this time of year when the cooling weather made everything sharp and crisp.  So he'd gone out to buy apple cider, after spending five minutes convincing Bucky that, yes, he _wanted_ to go and _buy_ some, thank you, no don't just summon it, Bucky, for god's sake.

He was humming under his breath as he walked. The hand that grabbed his collar and dragged him into the alley took him completely by surprise. He didn't have time to do more than gasp, the bag dropping from his hands to smash on the ground.

"You little fucker." The hand twisted in the back of his collar and Steve was flung across the alley to hit the brick wall. His face impacted hard, but he managed to get his hands up in time to stop himself from hitting the ground, and he spun around.  He recognised the guy from the other day and he was grinning nastily. "Bet you didn't think you'd see me again." He wasn't alone, the man with him was huge and scowling, cracking his knuckles in anticipation. Steve squared his shoulders, prepared to go down fighting, but he couldn't stop the sharp spike of fear. "Me and my brother are gonna kick the shit out of you."

"No. You're not." Steve's head snapped around at the words.

***

Bucky stood in the mouth of the alley, still as death, metal arm gleaming. His eyes raked over the two men, who stupidly squared up, preparing to fight, before coming to land on Steve.  Steve, whose face was bleeding, whose spike of fear Bucky had felt through the link he'd planted on him.

Rage flooded him, hot and dirty, and he welcomed it. He bared his teeth in something no one, not even the two in the alley, could mistake for a smile, and there was nothing human in it. They tried to run. Tried. They couldn't move, because Bucky had locked them in place with power. He stalked down the alley, placed himself between them and Steve, and just. Let. Go.

The power flowed out of him and slammed them up against the wall, locked in place high above the ground.  They wailed in fear, swore, begged, but no one would hear them.

The one who'd spoken was first, a long slash of red opening on his arm, then another, like something was clawing its way out from inside him. Bucky smiled, sharp and predatory, and did it again and again, on his face, on his brother's face.  No one would hear, no would come, and they would die in terror and pain.

There was a hand on his arm, tugging at his sleeve. A voice. "Bucky. Bucky, please stop."

Bucky's voice was cold, his eyes empty, as he slowly turned to look at Steve. "You going to force me to?"

"Please don't make me." Steve's voice was tinged with desperation, and the hand on Bucky's sleeve tightened, as if pleading with him. "Please." It pulled him back from the edge.

Bucky let the men fall. They scrabbled bleeding to their feet, stumbling and leaning on each other, and fled.  Bucky ignored them. He crowded into Steve's space, who held his ground.

"Bucky that's— What you did, it's not right."

"They were going to hurt you."

"I know, but still, it's not right. And they're going to remember. People will come looking for you."

"No they won't."

"What did you..." Steve trailed off.

"I took the memory."

"I didn't know you could do that."

Bucky reached out and flattened his palms against Steve's face, half expecting him to flinch away, but he didn't move, held steady as Bucky used a spark of power to heal him. Used his grip to pull Steve closer and then they were back in the apartment and Steve was stumbling away.

He pulled himself up to his full height and met Bucky's eyes. "Were you going to kill them?"

"Yes."

"You can't do things like that."

It hummed on the edge of an order, of a compulsion. "Is that a command?"

There was a long moment of silence before Steve spoke. "No. But I need you to promise me." Steve swallowed. "I need you to promise me you won't do it again."

"You want me to _promise you_. You're not commanding me not to do it. You want me to promise you." It beggared belief.

"Give me your word. If you give me your word, that's enough."

It broke something in Bucky, broke something wide open, and he started to laugh, dark and bitter. "Oh, Steve. If you knew what you were talking to you would never ask for my word. You'd wrap me tight in commands, you'd bind my limbs so I couldn't move, muzzle me and throw me back in the bottle to rot. And here you are, asking for my word."

Steve was staring at him, eyes wide. Bucky briefly met that clear blue gaze and looked away.

"Will you tell me?" It was soft, so soft Bucky almost didn't hear it.

Bucky dropped his head into his hand. "I'll tell you."

 

* * *

 

Bucky stood against the darkened window, looking out at the night. "I used to be a three wish genie."

"I thought..." Steve stopped, closed his mouth. "I'm sorry." He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the back of the couch, watching Bucky.

He turned briefly to look at Steve, eyes seeming to glow in the darkness, then once more turned away. "I used to be free. A magician caught me, trapped me in the bottle. For a thousand years whoever summoned me got three wishes. Just like the stories. Just like the stories, they usually went wrong." Bucky's lips curled. "Humans get exactly what they wish for and what they wish for is usually vile."

He wasn't sure what he'd be able to say, wasn't sure if the bindings in his arm would stop him. "There's an organisation, like a cult. I'm only going to say their name once. If you use a thing's name you risk drawing its attention. HYDRA. Never say that name to anyone, Steve. Ever. Don't even think it, if you can."

"I won't."

"They found my bottle, seventy years ago. They had an artefact, something from another world, and they turned me into what I am now, with this." He tapped the metal arm. "Permanent slave to my Master, not just for three wishes. Stripped most of my power to do it. Can't act against them. Have to obey my Master. "

"Bucky." It was barely above a whisper and Steve was looking at him with wide, horrified eyes.

"They want to rule the world. Turn it into their version of perfect order and they used me. I was their assassin, bomber, whatever they needed. They used me to put their people inside businesses, inside governments. I made their work possible. Every terrible thing humans can do to each other they did it all. Through me." His smile was vicious. "That's what you're asking to promise, what you're asking to give its word."

Steve stood and slowly walked over to stand near Bucky. "Could you have said no?"

"No."

"Would you have said no? If you could have."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I do not serve humanity. Because I am no one's slave," he snarled, sudden rage in his voice, swirling through his veins. It obliterated Steve; all he could see was a human, standing in front of him, and in that moment he hated him. "If you want me to say: because it was wrong, or evil, or because I have some great abiding love for the human race, you're going to be disappointed."

"No, I'm not. Jesus, Bucky." There was anger, anger nearly a match for Bucky's own, humming through Steve's voice, in the lines of his body, and his eyes were fierce. "Why would you give a damn about humans? Look what we've done to you."

It soothed his rage, banked it to a low hum, let him see _Steve_ again, not just a human.  "Not we."

"What?"

"You said 'look what we've done to you'.  I was passed from Master to Master. Every one exactly the same as the last. Until you." Bucky lifted a hand, almost touched him, then let it fall. "You're wrong. You don't fit."

"Not the first time someone's said that about me."

"No. You got the bottle, you summoned me, and you don't use me, you don't use my power. It's not three wishes, but still, the things I could do for you. They only had me for seventy years, but I was bound to grant wishes for a thousand years before that. I know humans and you don't fit. So don't say we."

Steve bowed his head, standing silently. "I still need you to promise," he finally said, not looking up. "I won't make you, not now, not ever, but I need you to tell me you won't hurt someone like that again, won't kill them."

"Ever?"

"Not unless it's to save your life, or, or if it's those people who did that to you, those people whose name I'm not allowed to say."

"Steve." Bucky put one finger under Steve's chin and lifted it. "What about to save your life?"

Steve shook his head, eyes going stubborn.

Of course Steve would allow him an exception to save his own life but not to save Steve's. "It's all or nothing."

He could feel Steve searching his face, looking for some sign of give, but he knew there was none. "All right, to save my life, but only if there's no other choice."

Bucky wrapped his hand around Steve's chin. "I give you my word."

 

* * *

 

Steve lay awake in bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

He'd never hated before.  Hadn't, until this moment, been sure he knew how.  Now, he truly hated. Hated the magician who'd trapped Bucky in the bottle. But even more, those people, the people he wasn't allowed to think about, the people who did that to Bucky. He hated them so much. If Bucky could make him strong, could make him a superhero, so he could fight them and set him free, he'd let Bucky do it. But it was one of the things Bucky _couldn’t_ do. Because they'd made Bucky helpless. 

After Bucky's revelations, after they'd both had a chance to settle, to breathe, Steve had made them both hot chocolate and they'd sat side by side on the couch. It had seemed so...wrong. Sitting there, on a couch, drinking hot chocolate out of mugs, like the world wasn't suddenly a colder, darker place.

_"Is there anything we can do? Can we stop them?"_

_"There's nothing you can do, Steve. I can't act against them. Even if you ordered me to destroy them. The rule to not act against them is the first rule. Obedience is the second. You have to stop thinking about it. Promise me."_

_"I promise."_

He'd never so badly wanted to hug someone. He'd wanted to turn and wrap his arms around Bucky and hold him as hard as he could. As if he could protect him. As if he could keep him safe.  As if that could somehow undo everything that had been done to him.  He was certain Bucky would've hated it, so he hadn't. Instead, he'd just leaned into his side a little, nudged him with his shoulder. Been rewarded with a weary half smile.

Steve stared up at his ceiling and didn't sleep, heart filled with sorrow and hatred and rage. He couldn’t free Bucky. He knew that. But he would do everything in his power to make him as free as he could. And he would protect him with everything he had.


	15. interlude

_A HYDRA base, somewhere in Europe_

"Sir, we've narrowed down the Asset's location to the continental United States."

"Sorry?"

"The Asset? It's definitely located somewhere in the continental United States. The signature profile I compiled out of the archives gave us a 99.9 percent match to a surge of power that the coven we contracted out of the Okanagan detected. They couldn't narrow it down any more than to below the border, but that's a start."

"Huh."

"Is everything okay, Sir? You seem a bit..."

"What, no, that's fine. Good, even. I'm not used to actual competence. It surprised me."

"I apologise?"

"It's fine."

"Well, I would suggest that we start using standard tracking methods as well as magical at this point. In addition to on the ground teams, we have access to a significant number of security cameras in most cities and we have photographs of the Asset's face. If we start running facial recognition scans it might help locate it."

A nod.

"It's not like the movies. The chances of actually finding it that way are about five hundred thousand to one. We're going to drown in false positives but sometimes you can get lucky. We should definitely continue using our independent contractors to track magical signatures."

"You've thought this through."

"Yes, Sir. I'm good at my job."

"I can see that."

"Also I have no particular desire to die."

"Always a good motivator."

"Yes, Sir."

"Hail HYDRA."

"Hail HYDRA."


	16. Clarity

Bucky was not getting on another bus. There were limits.

Steve had a client who needed otters, all sorts of otters in all sorts of poses, and he was willing to pay well. San Francisco had an Aquarium with otters Steve could go and draw, get a feel for in real life. 

All of that was fine with Bucky. He had nothing against otters. He'd never seen an otter, but he was sure they were perfectly unobjectionable animals.  But he was not getting on another bus, especially given it was pouring rain. He watched as Steve puttered about the apartment, getting ready to go, digging out a rain coat and an umbrella.

Two umbrellas. One of which he was offering to Bucky.

Bucky stared at it, lip curling in disdain. "What."

"So you don't get wet."

"One, I don't get wet unless I want to, and two, do you seriously expect us to keep taking buses?"

"How else are we going to get there? I can't exactly afford a taxi."

Bucky gestured to himself, making it clear from his expression that Steve was being stupid.

Steve's expression went mulish. "No."

"Why not?"

"I'm not going to use you."

Bucky deliberately held Steve's eyes. "You can ask for things," he said gently.

Steve just looked at him.

"You ask Sam for things. You ask Natasha for things," he pointed out. "I've heard you."

"That's different."

Of course it was. "Why?"

"Because they can refuse."

Bucky stared at him, eyes narrowing. "You're an idiot sometimes. If you _ask_ I don't have to do it. It's okay to ask me for things."

Steve stared back, the barest sliver of amusement visible under the iron stubbornness. "Are you allowed to call me an idiot?"

"When it's the truth? I can call you whatever I want. You should hear what I'm _not_ calling you."

Steve did not look convinced.

"Steve." Bucky crossed the room to stand in front of him, deliberately stepping into his space. Steve didn't move, just tipped his head back to look up at him. "I have power you can't imagine and you won't even ask me to reheat your coffee." He carefully ran one finger down Steve's nose, then tapped the tip. "Please. Ask me for things. If I don't want to do it, I'll tell you."

He could see the wheels turning in Steve's head, could see him considering it. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"You swear you'll tell me if you don't want to do something?"

Bucky's grin was satisfied. "No problem there. Now ask."

"Bucky, can you please take us to the Aquarium?"

Bucky opened his arms, pulled Steve close. "Close your eyes." He felt Steve's hands come up to clutch his shirt and _there was darkness and cold and a moment of not-being and Steve was a block of heat against him and Bucky held him tighter and_ they appeared behind the sign for the Aquarium. It was raining but neither of them were getting wet.

Bucky had standards. He'd carefully forgotten the umbrellas.

"Thanks, Bucky." Steve's smile was warm and Bucky gave him an elaborate bow, managing to imbue it with a hint of smugness.

"Like I said, no problem. And Steve?" He paused, waiting for Steve to look up at him in question. "There will be no more buses."

 

* * *

 

Bucky was completely smitten with the otters. He was staring at them, nose pressed to the glass, as they darted through the water. One of them appeared to be equally smitten with Bucky, and kept coming back to look at him. It followed Bucky's hand when he waved it in a circle, fingertips glowing slightly, seemingly fascinated. 

Steve watched, pencil moving quickly across his sketchbook to try and capture the lines of Bucky's body as he focussed so intently on the otter. There was something about them that reminded Steve strongly of Bucky.  Their quickness, the way they seemed to breathe mischief, the strength of them as they spun gracefully through the water.

The Aquarium wasn't busy, the heavy rain keeping most people away. It gave him the opportunity to spend as much time as he needed without feeling guilty that he was getting in people's way.

"Steve, watch this one. Look at him." Steve looked where Bucky was pointing to see the otter slide across the rocks on his belly then dive straight down, twisting and spinning in a dance as it once again found its way in front of Bucky to stare out at him through the glass. 

Bucky laughed and the sound was pure delight. It rang in Steve's heart like a bell. His pencil dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers and he couldn't take his eyes off Bucky.

_Oh. So this is what it feels like._

He knew, with a bone deep certainty, that he could never, ever act on it. Bucky wasn't human, Steve didn't know if he could even feel love. But he did know, however much his heart might hurt for it, he could never ask. You can't have a relationship with someone completely in your power. Someone who can't say no. It made him _ache_.

"Everything okay, Steve?"

Bucky was staring at him, brows drawn down in concern. "Everything's fine. Sorry, just had an idea, is all."

"You dropped your pencil."

"Yeah, I did." He reached down to pick it up. Took one deep breath and then another and shoved his new knowledge way down deep inside where it couldn't be seen. "Show me your otter again? I think we can make him a star."


	17. Earthquake Weather

This was never going to be a good week for Steve.  Even though he'd known it was coming, had mentally shored himself up, it was still not a good week.

It wasn't the sudden knowledge of his love for Bucky. For all that being with Bucky made him ache at times, he couldn't make himself regret it. He was starting to adjust, like a heavy load he hadn't quite gotten balanced. Eventually, it would settle and he'd be able to carry it more easily. Seeing Bucky was always a source of joy, the difficult part keeping it banked, concealing the flush of warmth whenever Bucky touched him. 

It wasn't his clients, who continued to be cheerful and understanding. He knew how fortunate he was in that, since he spent enough time on the forums to know how unusual it was.

No, he was not having a good week because it was _this_ week. Because it was this week a year ago he had lost his mother and it was weighing on him like a thousand pounds of grief in a yoke across his heart.  He kept it inside, or he was trying, and he didn't think Bucky had noticed.  Sam was away with Riley, who was negotiating an end to a labour dispute somewhere in Western Canada.  Natasha was...

His phone rang, knocking him out of his thoughts, and he picked it up automatically. Natasha was on the phone. 

"I'm about to leave work early to go and have decadent pastries and overpriced coffee. You should join me."

"Hey, Nat."

"You can bring Bucky if he wants to come."

"Hang on, I'll ask him." He held the phone away from his ear.  "Bucky, do you want coffee and decadent pastries?"

"With your friend who doesn't like me?" He sounded highly amused by this fact, and he leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, and grinned toothily. "Sounds like fun."

"Will you be nice?" he asked seriously. He didn't feel up to dealing with Bucky and Nat biting at each other. "Please."

Bucky's grin faded as he took in Steve's expression. "I can do that." 

Steve nodded his thanks, then pulled the phone back.  "We'll be there."

He was getting used to their brief passages through cold and nothingness, but he never thought he'd get used to how easy it made his life, and he murmured his thanks to Bucky, rested his hand briefly on his shoulder, before leading the way into the bakery.  It smelled amazing and he saw even Bucky stop and draw in an appreciative breath of butter and sugar and delicious warmth, with hints of cinnamon and honey. 

Natasha had claimed a booth and there were an array of pastries and a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. Steve and Bucky detoured to the counter to get drinks for themselves before joining her. Steve slid in to the seat across from her, Bucky sliding in next to him.

"Hello, Natasha," Bucky said, inclining his head politely in her direction and giving her a small smile. Steve relaxed.

"Bucky," she replied, looking not quite surprised, but Steve could see the hint of it in her eyes. 

"Thanks for inviting me."

"No problem."

Obligation to be nice apparently met, Bucky shifted his gaze to Steve, who quickly asked, "How did you manage to get a half day off work?"

"That trial I was instructing on? Tate managed his usual scare the crap out of them tactics during the cross and they decided to settle rather than continue on the next day. The partners were so pleased, everyone who worked on it got a half day and I also got a nice bonus." She smiled like a shark. "And so we have pastries. And this." She placed a tall box, wrapped in red paper, on the table. "For you."

"You got me a present?"

She tapped the box and pushed it closer to him in answer. Steve picked it up off the table, careful not to drag it through the creampuffs, and opened it to pull out a bottle of vodka. A very fine, very expensive bottle of vodka. "Nat?"

She put an elbow on the table and her chin in her hand and looked at him seriously. "I don't recommend it as a coping mechanism but there are times when a drink or two does ease the heart. And knowing you, you'd either not indulge yourself or would buy the cheapest, nastiest rotgut you could find. So, if you need it, you have it, and if you don't, you can leave it in the freezer."

Steve glanced at Bucky, but Bucky's attention was elsewhere, fixed on the other side of the bakery. 

"It's okay, Steve. I'm not going to make you talk about it. I just wanted you to know I know you're going to be having a rough time. I'm here if you need me and Sam's only a Skype call away."

"Thanks, Nat." He smiled at her, overwhelmed with a rush of affection. "You're kind of the best, you know?" 

She rolled her eyes at him. "Don't get mushy on me," she said and pushed a cinnamon roll towards him.  "Here, eat this and I'll tell you about the trial." 

***

Bucky had tuned out after keeping his promise to be nice to Natasha. He was vaguely aware that they were talking, that she had given something to Steve, but his attention was drifting over the bakery.

It sharpened suddenly, his focus going intent, when the glastig walked in.  It was the first magical creature he'd seen since Steve had summoned him from the bottle. He knew there were others here in the city, had felt the echo of them sometimes, but he'd never seen one, never encountered one. Had begun to suspect it might be deliberate.

But here was a glastig and it was staring back at him. 

To the humans it would look human, he knew. Bucky could see the magic roiling off it and he knew it could see his. It would know what he was, even with his mutilation: genies were very distinctive.

It would be able to see the chains of magic binding him to Steve, locking him to the human, would be able to see HYDRA's rot polluting them, coating them like slime. The first was evil enough, the second worse, both an abomination to another creature of magic. 

Bucky could see it studying him, could feel its magic rising in the air, a shimmer like heat waves. It was examining the chains, the magic, drawing its conclusions, about Bucky, about Steve, about what it meant.

He could see the moment it reached a decision. That another creature of magic, a stranger, would be so enraged at his captivity that it would act to try and free him was noble and generous.

But its magic was rising too fast. Its focus was locked on Steve. It could kill Steve in the space of a thought, in the space of a single heartbeat. There was no time to explain, no time to do anything but leap to his feet and call his own magic, his own power, golden and fierce, and wrap it around Steve. To snarl silently, teeth bared in unmistakable threat, at the glastig. He would kill to protect him, this human he was bound to, would lay waste to everything in his path, if needed, and he dropped all his masks and let it free.

The glastig faltered, its magic stuttering out. Bucky let his power fade in response. The two were left staring at each other. As Bucky watched, a faint expression of surprise washed across its face, followed by something akin to disgust. Bucky gave it a dark look in return, kept his eyes on it until it left the bakery.

He became aware that there was a hand on his wrist. Warm. He looked down. Steve's hand was wrapped around his wrist, was squeezing gently. He twisted his body to look at him. His eyes were gentle, concerned.

"Bucky? Everything okay?" 

He didn't answer, flicked his gaze sideways to meet Natasha's. Her eyes were wary, cautious, held an unmistakable warning, and he realised that while Steve had been behind him and had seen nothing but his back, Natasha had been in a position to see his face. He gave her a feral smile before he schooled his expression into something more acceptable, more human, and slid back into the seat next to Steve. "I didn't like the way that guy was looking at you." It was a weak reason, for all it was technically true, but he knew Steve would accept it and he didn't give a damn what Natasha thought.

"Okay, Bucky," he said after a short pause and when Bucky slid closer, so Steve was tucked against his side, Steve just settled there, calm and quiet.

 

* * *

 

Natasha's gift sat in the freezer for the rest of the week.  Steve threw himself into work, completing a number of jobs for clients who were pleased to get them ahead of schedule.  After the incident in the bakery, Bucky had seemed to withdraw a little, was gone more than Steve was used to. 

He was gone now, had been gone most of the day. Steve had no projects, nothing to keep him busy, and today was the day his mother had died.  She'd fought and fought but, in the end, had known when it was time to stop fighting. She'd made her choice and it had been the right one. Steve knew that. It didn't mean it had hurt any less. 

He looked out the window. It was dark outside, had been for several hours. That meant it was perfectly reasonable if he wanted to have one drink. To ease his heart. Natasha was one of the smartest people he knew and if she thought it would help, he was willing to give it a try.

It was very, very good vodka. The shot glass was cold against his fingers, Nat having explained at length that it was to be kept in the freezer. He wasn't stupid, had no intention of drinking to inebriation or downing shot after shot. Just slow, small sips, to ease his heart.

For something so cold it was surprisingly warm and he let out a small sigh as it hit his stomach.  Natasha had been right, it did ease the heart. It was like a blanket, muffling everything into a distant echo of what it had been. The distance helped. 

When Bucky appeared in the living room, holding a curving iridescent seashell in one hand, Steve was pouring himself a second small glass. Bucky set the shell down on the table and looked at him in surprise. "What are you doing?"

"Drinking Nat's vodka," he replied. "Want me to pour you some?"

"It doesn't affect me, so I'll pass. Can I ask why you're drinking Natasha's vodka?"

He was looking concerned and Steve felt warmth pour through him, meeting the sadness, and the two twisted together in a complicated medley. Steve walked back to the couch and sat down, nestling into the corner. "She says a drink or two can ease the heart."

That seemed to give him pause. Finally, he sat down next to Steve. "Why does your heart need easing?"

Steve looked into his glass, then shook his head. If he tried to explain he was going to lose the tenuous hold he had on his emotions. He took another slow sip, felt it curl down into his gut.

"Ah, Steve." Bucky was watching him closely. "It can't be that bad."

He didn't know how to answer that, so he shrugged.

"Come on, Steve. This isn't doing you any good." He tapped the glass in Steve hands, his metal finger making a ringing sound. "Talk to me."

"It's not," he started, stopped, started again. "It's okay, you don't have to worry about it."

"You know I can turn that into water if you keep drinking it," he teased, his smile warm. "Be much better to talk to me."

It was only a moment's inattention, caused by the muffled blanket of the vodka, by trying too hard to match Bucky's tone. It was something he would have said to Natasha or Sam, or to any one of a dozen casual acquaintances. But this was Bucky. His words could never be casual. "Hey, shut up," he said. "It's too expensive to turn into water."

Bucky's mouth snapped shut as he was instantly silenced, cut off from his words, and his eyes went cold. The knowledge of what he'd done washed over Steve's skin like ice water.

"God, Bucky, no. I'm sorry. I take it back, I didn't mean it. You can talk. Please talk." Steve grabbed his hand, trying to hold him in place as he rose from the couch. Bucky stared down at him, face like stone.  Steve let go of his hand. "I'm sorry."

Seconds stretched as Bucky looked down at him. Finally, his expression thawed and he sat back down. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

He didn't want to, could feel it welling up in him, too big, too painful, to be voiced. But he'd just hurt Bucky because he'd been careless and stupid. Bucky deserved honesty.  "Before I found you, I'd only been here for a couple of months. I moved here because Sam and Nat were here. But I moved from New York because," he swallowed, took a deep breath, "because my mother died. A year ago today. Without her, there was nothing left for me there."

Bucky shifted to face him.

"It's been a year and it should be better, it is better, most of the time, but sometimes it still feels like it was yesterday. She was my whole family." Steve leaned forward to press his forehead against Bucky's shoulder. "I miss her."

They sat in silence for a long time, the only sounds their quiet breathing. After a time, Bucky spoke. "Why don't you go to bed." He took the glass out of Steve's hands, touched his fingertips to Steve's cheek. Steve felt the familiar spark of his power, felt the dull headache he'd barely been aware of ease. "You'll feel better tomorrow."

Obediently, eyes on the floor, Steve went.

***

Bucky could hear him getting ready for bed, could hear all the little noises that humans made. Listened as Steve climbed into bed. Listened to the sound of muffled crying.

He looked down at his hands. One flesh, one metal. Both symbols of the human beings who'd enslaved him, first to the bottle and then to HYDRA. Glanced at the door to Steve's room. Finally, he stood up and walked over to let himself in. A thought changed his clothes for cotton pants and a t-shirt, similar to the ones Steve always wore to bed.

Bucky pulled back the covers and climbed in, reaching out for Steve, one hand on his waist. Steve froze. "Bucky?" he asked, sounding exhausted, voice rough from suddenly holding back tears.

"It's okay," he said gently. "Come here." He exerted the slightest pressure and after a second Steve moved across the bed and into his arms. Bucky tucked Steve into the curve of his body as Steve pressed his face into his chest. Steve was tense, Bucky could feel him holding back. "It's okay, Steve. Let go." As Steve relaxed and began to cry, honest sorrow for his lost mother, Bucky ran his hand down Steve's back in long, slow strokes, holding him close. 

The human body can only sustain tears for so long and as they eased, finally stopped altogether, Bucky felt Steve start to pull away. He let him go and produced a handkerchief from thin air, offering it to him. "Here."

It got him a watery chuckle. "Thanks." Steve wiped his eyes and blew his nose and when he didn't know what to do with it, Bucky made it disappear.  When Steve didn't seem to know what to do with himself, Bucky reached out for him again. Steve hesitated, then curled into him, resting his head on his chest, and Bucky wrapped his arms around him. 

"Go to sleep."  It didn't take long until Bucky felt him drift off.  Steve shifted in his sleep, twisting around until his back was pressed against Bucky's side. Bucky turned so he could curve around him, one arm across his chest, holding him close. Steve made a snuffling noise and pressed closer. Bucky looked down at him, vulnerable and pale; fragile, like every other human.

No. Not like every other human. Steve was not like any other human. Bucky needed him.

But he didn't just need Steve for this illusion of freedom. He didn't just need Steve to live. To be safe.

He needed _Steve._ For himself, for all of the things he was, for his huge spirit and his stubborn nature and his fierce determination to make Bucky as free as he could. For his odd beauty, his defiant grace, for the way Bucky felt when he held him close, this strange, physical need to touch he'd never before experienced.

Bucky felt his universe tremble, felt it split itself in two, divide itself into _Steve_ and _everything-that-was-not-Steve_. There was a moment of choice, a moment he could have fought it. Instead, he gave himself up to it, let go, buried his nose in Steve's hair and breathed deeply.

Bucky didn't sleep. But he could fall into a trance-like doze, and he was lulled there by the sound of Steve's breathing and Steve's heart beating under his hand.

He was still there when Steve woke up in the morning.

Bucky felt him wake, moved towards alertness with the rise in Steve's heartrate, with the increase in his breathing.  Steve tensed slightly then relaxed against him. "You're real."

Surprised, Bucky had to choke back a laugh.  "I'm real," he replied, remembering this first time he'd said those words, and he pressed his forehead into Steve's hair. "Did you think you dreamed me?"

"I kind of did."

"Well, you can be kind of an idiot."

Steve's laugh was like sunshine.


	18. Exit, Pursued (or not) by a Bear

Bucky's eyes narrowed at the knock on the door and he was up and answering it, automatically covering his metal arm, before it could wake up Steve.

"Hey, Bucky, right? I'm Sam. We haven't officially met." Sam held out his hand. "I see Steve's landlord finally fixed the elevator. Didn't think that would ever happen."

Bucky didn't shake his hand and Sam let it fall, smile fading. Bucky was surprised at how much he didn't want to let him in the apartment. Didn't want to let _anyone_ in the apartment. "Steve's asleep."

"Right, of course, middle of the afternoon and all that. I don't suppose you could let me in?"

"No," Bucky replied, sounding very certain.  

Sam's eyebrows just about hit the ceiling. "Then how about you wake him up and let him know I'm here."   

Bucky considered shutting the door and putting a shield over it so none of Sam's sounds would reach inside the apartment. He considered lifting the memory from Sam's head that he'd ever been here at all. He considered what Steve's reaction to either of those would be and sighed internally. "Wait here," he said and shut the door. 

Steve was curled like a comma on the couch, hands tucked in front of him, blanket half-slipping off his body, and Bucky crouched next to him. "Steve," he said softly. Steve's nose wrinkled but he didn't wake. Bucky brushed his hair back, tucking the errant strands behind his ear, then ran the backs of his fingers down his neck to nestle in the hollow of his collarbone. "Wake up, will you?"

His eyes opened and he smiled. "Hey, Bucky."

"Hey," he replied and tapped the tip of his nose, smirking as Steve went momentarily cross-eyed, then swatted him.  "Sam's here."

Steve sat up, yawning hugely. "Where?" he asked, looking around, and Bucky handed him a mug of coffee.

"Outside the door."

"Bucky," he said reproachfully and jumped up, careful not to spill his coffee.

"You were asleep," he replied. He didn't say, and vulnerable and there's no one I'd let in the apartment with you like that. As Steve let Sam inside, sipping his coffee and beckoning him in, Bucky made his way over to casually sprawl in the overstuffed chair, the spot with the best view of the whole apartment.

"Sam, hey, it's great to see you!" Steve was reaching up to hug Sam, and Sam was clapping him on the back. "I didn't know you were back."

"You too, man. You, too. Didn't think your guard dog was going to let me in."

Steve glanced at Bucky, eyes narrowing briefly, and Bucky looked back, then sighed and slumped a little in the chair, acknowledging that he'd possibly been ruder than necessary. The corner of Steve's mouth twitched. "Sorry," he said as he turned back to Sam. "I was asleep. Was up late last night finishing something for a client. Do you want a coffee?"

"That'd be good, thanks."

"How was Canada?" Steve went to the kitchen to prep the coffee maker and Sam followed.

"Cold and full of nature."

"I've heard that."

"Sorry I didn't call first. My phone died a noble death saving me from a bear."

Steve stared at him. "What the hell?"

"Yeah, you're going to love this." Sam's smile was wide, and he settled back against the counter, arms folded. "The place we were staying in BC, it had these gorgeous trails. Really beautiful. Only problem is I forgot you're supposed to take bear bells with you if you're going anywhere outside at this time of year."

"What's a bear bell?" Steve asked.

"They're big loud bells you wear so bears hear you coming and run the other way."

" _Sam_."

Sam held up his hand in a wait gesture. "So there I am jogging away, minding my own business, listening to some good music, when I turn down a side trail and I kid you not come face to face with a bear. Just a little one, you know, but still, a damned bear. This close." Sam held his hands a few feet apart. "I could have reached out and touched the thing if I was an idiot."

The coffee machine beeped and Sam paused long enough to accept a mug from Steve, taking a drink before continuing.

"Don't know how it didn't hear me coming but I swear, the bear did a double take. I stopped dead, thinking 'oh fuck, a bear' and I'm pretty sure it was thinking 'oh fuck, a human' and we're just kind of staring at each other."

"Sam!" Steve was half laughing, half horrified, one hand over his mouth.

"I know, but me being the genius I am I figure if _bells_ scare away bears louder noises are going to work even better, so I pulled the headphones out of my phone, hit the play button, drop it on the ground and back the hell away, music blasting out at full volume. That bear turned tail and bolted. As soon as I was back on the main trail, not gonna lie, I did the same thing."

Steve was still laughing, shaking his head at Sam in disbelief. Sam nodded. "So my phone's still somewhere in the Canadian wilderness, possibly serving as a warning tale to a generation of young cubs, and I haven't organised a new one yet."

Steve wiped his eyes, getting himself back under control. "That's about the best reason for not calling I've ever heard," he said. "Not that you have to. You can drop by whenever you want."

Sam flicked a look at Bucky who met it with a blank one of his one. "I'll keep that in mind. Anyway, in an effort to get some of that admirable-from-a-distance nature out of my system, we're heading to Union Square tonight. There's a free concert and you should come."

"Who's playing?"

"Don't know, don't care, as long as there's people and crowds and shoving and street food and other things that spell city."

Steve smiled. "Sounds good to me."

"Steve." Bucky's flat voice dropped into their easy conversation like a stone into still water, silence rippling out. Steve turned to look at him and Bucky bent his head slightly, meeting his eyes.

Steve turned back to Sam. "It's all right if Bucky comes?"

Sam glanced between them, smile fading, a slight wrinkle between his eyes. "That's fine," he finally said. Bucky could tell it wasn't fine, that he hadn't precisely been included in the invitation, but he didn't care. He didn't want Steve going somewhere there were going to be crowds of humans who wouldn't care whether they hurt him or not, not unless he was going to be there to make sure he was safe.

He tuned out the rest of their conversation, paying just enough attention he'd know if Steve needed him, and ignored the occasional looks he could feel Sam throwing his way.

 

* * *

 

Sam cleared his throat. "Let's talk about Bucky."

Steve paused with his coffee half way to his mouth and shot Sam a suspicious look. Put his coffee down. Folded his arms. "Is this an intervention?" he asked incredulously. He'd fielded a phone call from Natasha the day after the concert and two days later Sam had asked him to meet for coffee.  Specifically requesting that it be a Bucky-free meet up. Suddenly, Steve thought he understood why.

"No, no, nothing like that. We, _I_ just wanted to check in with you, make sure everything's all right."

Steve gave him a steely look, eyes narrowed.

"It's _not_ an intervention. There'd need to be banners and cue cards and _I_ statements for that, and more than one person," Sam protested. "This is just one guy having a coffee with another guy and talking about this other guy who lives in the second guy's apartment and who the first guy and his friend think might be someone to worry about."

Steve blinked. "I did not follow that at all."

"Honestly, I lost track of what was going on about half way through," Sam admitted.

"Let me guess, you and Natasha flipped a coin and you lost?"

"Possibly, but that's not actually important."

"It kind of is."

"It kind of isn't."

"Sam," Steve said, and sighed. "Just spit out whatever it is you and Natasha want to say, will you?"

"Nat thinks Bucky's dangerous. After she told me what happened in the bakery, I've got to agree."

Steve was a terrible liar, he knew, and he didn't bother to try, because Bucky absolutely was dangerous and he didn't think 'he's promised not to kill anyone unless it's absolutely necessary' would be particularly comforting. There was one thing he could say that was absolute truth.  "He's not dangerous to me."

"You sound pretty sure about that."

"I _am_ pretty sure about that." You could have bent steel around the certainty in Steve's voice.

"Right, okay." A beat. "You and Bucky, is it a fifty shades of grey thing?"

Steve stared at him.

"Because you know I'm not one—"

"Sam."

"—to judge someone else's lifestyle and—"

"SAM."

"—you know if that's a thing you're into I'm not going to say anything against it, it'd just be great if you—

"SAM!"

"—could tell us so we could stop worr—"

"For fuck's sake, it's not a fifty shades of grey thing!"

And he'd just shouted that. In the middle of a coffee shop. Six people turned around to stare at him and he flushed to the ears. "Well, it's not," he told them defensively.

Five of them turned around. The sixth, an elderly lady with grey hair and a steely gaze, fixed him with a stern look. "I'm glad to hear it. Its literary value aside, it's a terrible guidebook. There are far better resources available online. I'd be happy to give you some reputable websites. Safe, sane and consensual, young man, and that book is none of them."

Steve groaned and dropped his forehead on the table. "That's really not necessary, ma'am, I promise." He paused, but his manners got the better of him. "But thank you."

She eyed him, _hmmmmed_ dubiously, then turned back to her coffee.

"Okay, so that just happened," Sam said, voice trembling with barely supressed laughter.

Steve groaned again and kept his head on the table as Sam gave in and started laughing. It cleared the air and Steve felt himself smile. When Sam's laughter finally stopped, he lifted his head. "Can you tell me what exactly bothers you so much about Bucky?"

Turning his coffee mug around in his hands, Sam's expression was thoughtful. "It's feels like you're not being you," he finally said. "The thing that makes you _you_ is you don't let anyone make you less than you are. Anyone that tries ends up having a pretty bad day." Steve laughed quietly under his breath. "But you let him, I don't know. He wouldn't let me in your apartment, he didn't want you to go to the concert without him. Nat said you let him push you around, literally, and you don't say a word. Other people do that, you'd rip them to pieces. It's why I asked about the fifty shades thing, because that would at least make sense, you know?" 

He could understand what Sam was saying, and in any other situation Sam would be right. But this wasn't any other situation.  And he realised that, even if he told Sam what Bucky was, could make Sam believe him, it wouldn't do anything to make Sam feel any easier. It would only add a new adjective to whatever narrative Sam was constructing in his head. _Okay, so take the genie out of the equation._

"Bucky," he started. Stopped. "There's things I can't tell you. But Bucky, people hurt him. They hurt him for a long time. He—" He looked up. Sam's expression was grave, eyes full of questions Steve hoped he wouldn't ask, because he wasn't going to be able to give him answers. "Some of the things he does—" He was picking his way carefully, trying to translate the truth into...a different kind of truth. "They're what he needs to do to feel safe, to remind himself I won't hurt him. Needed, anyway. It's more habit, now." 

"That _you_ won't hurt _him_."

"Yeah. I know how it sounds. But I could hurt him so badly without even meaning to. Just by being careless or not paying attention and..." He rubbed his forehead. "It's already happened a couple of times and he's forgiven me, every time. I don't know if I would have, not after everything that's been done to him."

"Steve, what are you _talking_ about?"

"I can't tell you. I really, honestly can't. They're not my secrets to tell. But I can swear to you Bucky would never hurt me. The way we are, it's just the way we are. Whatever it looks like, it...works for us."

He met Sam's searching gaze, Sam who knew he couldn't lie worth a damn, and let him read the truth for himself.

"Steve." Sam sat back in his chair. "All we need to know is that you're okay. What I'm hearing is that yeah, you're okay. It sounds like maybe Bucky isn't, and I think I'm gonna feel pretty bad about that later." 

"It's okay. And I will admit he can be a little overprotective. Something you should be familiar with," he finished with a pointed look.

"Yeah, all right, point taken," he said, nodding his head in acknowledgement. "So, are you saying you and Bucky are an us now?"

Steve carefully lined his spoon up with the edge of the table. "No, not like that."

He could feel Sam studying him before he said, "But you'd like to be."

Steve didn't answer, just gave Sam a wry, fleeting smile.

Sam eyed him. "How bad?"

"As bad as it gets, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah, me too."

They lapsed into silence.

It was broken when a business card appeared on the table. Steve looked up to see the elderly lady from before. "Here. They'll look after you; they're great with newbies. Tell them Vera sent you and they'll give you a ten percent discount."

He looked down and, yes, the card was for a BDSM and fetish gear store. She was gone before he could say anything.  

Steve dropped his forehead back on the table, face bright red, and Sam once more burst into laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T'was I that was saved from the bear! Yes, it's a true story. I did manage to hang onto my phone, though. Lesson learned: never, ever forget your bear bells.


	19. interlude

_A HYDRA base, somewhere in Europe_

 "Sir?"

"This better be good, it's," pause, "two o'clock in the goddamned morning."

"I know where it is."

Beat. "You know where it is."

"Yes."

"You're sure."

"Yes, Sir."

"How sure?"

"It's somewhere in San Francisco."

"That's not exactly GPS coordinates."

"I know, Sir, but—"

"But nevermind. Good job. Goddamned good job. Do I want to know how you managed that?"

A long pause. "You really don't, Sir."

"Good answer. Organise to get us there ASAP, and find out the time difference in Washington DC. I'm going to need to speak to Pierce as soon as possible."

"Yes, Sir."

"I'll be there in 20 minutes."

"Yes, Sir."

"Hail HYDRA."

"Hail HYDRA."


	20. Let's Not Have an Elephant in the Room

"I have no idea what to get Natasha for her birthday."

Bucky looked up from his book. "An elephant?"

"What would she do with an elephant?"

Bucky shrugged. "I don't know, ride it to work?"

Steve tried to picture that, spluttered, "No. Where would I even get an...Oh," he finished as Bucky waved a hand at himself. "Please don't summon an elephant."

Bucky shrugged again and went back to his book.

After an hour of fruitless internet searches, Steve looked up. "Bucky," he said slowly. "Could you _find_ something? Something that someone lost?"

"Probably. Why, did you lose something?"

"Not me. Natasha. Last year."

"And you want me to find it for her birthday."

"Only if you want to." Things were better between Bucky and his friends since Sam's not-an-intervention-at-all-really-Steve, but he knew Bucky didn't like them. He didn't think Bucky _disliked_ them. He didn't think Bucky was really interested in them at all.

"Do you want me to?" Bucky put down his book and leaned forward, hands resting on his knees, to fix Steve with a searching look.

"I know it would make Natasha happy. Her grandfather's watch, the chain broke, she was never sure where. She doesn't let on when things upset her but I know that hurt."

Bucky sighed. "Do you have a picture of it?"

Steve found a photo of Natasha wearing the watch and half an hour later, filthy and slime covered, it was sitting on the kitchen table. Bucky's nose was wrinkled in disgust. Steve was beaming. "Do you want me to...?" He waved a hand at it. When Steve nodded, he lifted a finger and it was gleaming again, its even tick sounding strong and certain. 

 

* * *

 

The noise of the bar was a muted hum in the background, quiet but lively, and Steve slid an exquisitely wrapped box across the table. "Happy birthday, Natasha."

"I'd say you didn't have to get me anything, but we both know that would be a lie," she teased, and carefully unwrapped it. When she lifted the lid off the box and pulled back the layers of tissue paper to reveal the watch, she froze. "Steve?"

Sam, struck by her reaction, leaned over to look. "Is that what I think it is?" he asked.

"It is," Steve confirmed.

"Where did you find it?" Natasha's voice was disbelieving as she carefully lifted the watch out of the box. She held it up to her ear and her eyes widened when she heard its regular tick. "It's working. Steve. How did you _do_ this?"

"It wasn't me." He tipped his head sideways, pointing. "It was Bucky. I asked him if he could, but he's the one who actually found it. So I guess it's technically from both of us." He ignored Bucky's sharp look.

Both Sam and Natasha shifted their attention to Bucky. "How did you find it?" she asked.

Bucky, with another narrow-eyed look at Steve, leaned back in his chair. "I'm gifted," he said enigmatically.

"You must have damn near magical powers," Sam said, shaking his head, while Natasha studied Bucky. Steve coughed into his hand.

Bucky returned her gaze, face giving nothing away. Finally, she said, "Thank you, however you did it. This," her fingers closed around the watch, "means a lot."

Bucky looked down at her hand, at the way her fingers held the watch protectively, glanced at Steve, who was watching him, and inclined his head, expression softening. "You're welcome."  

 

* * *

 

Bucky kept an eye on Steve as he made his way to the bar. Sam had gone to the bathroom, which left him alone at the table with Natasha. He could feel her glancing at him occasionally but she didn't seem to feel a need to fill the silence with meaningless noise, for which he was grateful.

His attention shifted completely to Steve, and his focus sharpened as Steve slid in front of two men, both of them bigger than him, placing himself between them and a young woman who was sitting on a stool at the bar. He went still, leaning forward, watching intently.

Natasha noticed the change. "What?"  She followed his eyes to the bar, saw what was happening and started to stand.

"No." His hand shot out, not quite touching her. He understood the impulse, felt the curl of anger that wanted to skin the two men alive, but Steve wouldn't thank him for interfering where it wasn't needed. He would watch first. He could be across the bar and by Steve's side in a heartbeat if necessary. "Just wait."

He could feel her glare, but she held steady, and they both watched as Steve pulled up to his full height, steely gaze unforgiving, and tore verbal strips off them, sending them on their way, slouching down and looking embarrassed.

Bucky relaxed.

The woman on the stool smiled at Steve as he turned to talk to her, said something, and they watched him point in their direction and smile.

He could feel Natasha staring at him and he tipped his head in her direction, still keeping part of his attention on Steve. "That was unexpected," she said. "The way you act, I thought you'd have been all dash to the rescue, like he was some sort of damsel in distress."

"Only if he needs me." His smile was sharp.

She made a doubtful, humming noise in the back of her throat.

"I'm not going to interfere unless he needs me. If he does need me..." He met her eyes, let his own go cold.

"I see," she said after a minute. "Do you want to take the 'if you hurt him I'll kill you' part of this conversation as read?"

"If you want." He flashed his teeth at her. "Good thing I can't hurt him." He was sure she caught the implication, that it wasn't _him_ it was good for, and she bristled, but before she could reply, Steve was there, setting their drinks on the table and dropping into the seat next to him.

It was automatic for Bucky to reach out and wrap a hand around the back of his neck, just to have a hand on him, so he could know Steve was protected. Safe. He could hear Steve's huff, of fondness not irritation, and he leaned into Bucky's hand.

He could feel Natasha's eyes on him again and he cocked an eyebrow at her. There was a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Nat?" Steve asked.

She shook her head, answering Steve, but her eyes never left Bucky's. "I think I get it now."


	21. Of Bloody Deeds and Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one gets brutal, my friends.

Steve was happy. Somehow, without him realising, he'd adjusted. Bucky was bright and shining and beautiful and as free as Steve could make him and Steve was pretty sure he was going to love him forever.  He'd come to grips with it. He'd found his peace. Bucky's habitual contact, the little touches, were a constant and he always made a barrier of himself in crowds, tucking Steve against him. If Steve would sometimes close his eyes and breathe him in, just for a moment, it was okay. He was happy.

It was coming into winter proper and all the irritations that winter brought, the cold, the damp, his aching joints, his trouble breathing, simply didn't happen. He was never cold, never in pain. Bucky looked after him, eased all the minor troubles that were part of an average human life without Steve ever asking. 

Right now, he was trying to sketch out a rough plan for a triptych a client had commissioned, and it wasn't going well. It wasn't helped by the fact that _someone_ was manifesting tiny origami cranes and flying them over to land on his head. Not throwing them. The cranes were actually flapping their tiny paper wings and clumsily landing in his hair. It wasn't so much their landing that was distracting as their confused attempts to nest.

Steve lifted his head and glared at Bucky. Who looked innocently back. "Must you?"

"I must," he replied earnestly, deliberately widening his eyes.

"Why?" Steve asked, but he was having trouble stopping the smile that wanted to escape. Bucky in this sort of mood was impossible to resist.

Bucky shrugged. "You brought this on yourself, you know," he pointed out instead of answering.

"How could I have possibly brought this," he gestured at the cranes on his head, "on myself?"

"You're the one who picked up a bottle up and brought it home."

"I didn't know it was going to have a six foot tall pain in the ass in it!"

Bucky grinned at him. "That's not exactly my fault."

"I'm blaming you anyway."

Bucky snapped his fingers, the cranes disappeared, and it started to snow on Steve's head. Steve just _looked_ at him, deeply unimpressed, and Bucky laughed.

 

* * *

 

Bucky should have known. He should have known they wouldn’t let him go.

There was no warning. One minute they were walking down the street together, Steve shoving Bucky's shoulder to send him laughing across the sidewalk. The next, Steve was being snatched away from him. Bucky's wrath rose and he turned, ready to rend whoever had touched him into spare parts, and froze.

He couldn't. He couldn't stop them.

They were shoving Steve into a van, hurting him, because he was fighting, but for all Steve's body contained a vengeful and defiant spirit it was small and not strong enough to fight trained operatives. Operatives of HYDRA. 

Steve's eyes met his, confused and angry and scared, and Bucky couldn't stop them.

In the seconds he'd stood frozen, Steve had disappeared into the van and the van had sped away. Bucky shook it off, reached, and appeared inside the van, crouched protectively over Steve.  As he appeared, he dropped the illusion from his arm and snarled, "Back the fuck off."

The men who'd been pinning Steve to the van's floor flinched away, and Bucky snarled again, sending them scrambling into the corners. They recognised him, knew him from rumour and gossip and those terrified whispers on the wind.

His hands were running over Steve even as he scanned the van, locking eyes with each human being, each fragile bag of blood and bone that he could. Not. Hurt. They were servants of HYDRA and he could not act against them. He couldn't snatch Steve away, because it would be acting against servants of HYDRA.  He could do nothing but bluff.

"Bucky?" Steve's voice was a low whisper, steady, and Bucky wanted to weep. "What's happening?"

"It's HYDRA," he replied, voice equally quiet.

He glanced down to meet Steve's eyes and saw that Steve knew what that meant. Knew Bucky would be helpless. Saw the fear flash through his eyes before he pushed it down.

"What the hell is going on back there?" the driver yelled over his shoulder as he pushed the van though traffic.

"It's, it's the Asset," one of the men replied. "It's in the van."

There was a beat of silence and then the driver said, in a voice that was absolutely flat, "Then I guess we got the right person. Pierce will be pleased."

"Bucky, you should go, get away." Steve was pushing at Bucky's hands.

"I'm not leaving you." He could do nothing to protect him and it was clawing at him but he wasn't going to leave him to face this alone.  Steve was going to make him go. He saw the intention cross his face and slapped his hand over Steve's mouth. "Don't. Don't do it. Please." Steve finally nodded and Bucky pulled his hand away.

Bucky crouched on the floor of the van, terrifyingly aware of the guns now trained on Steve's fragile human body. He crouched lower over Steve, trying to hide him from sight.

 

* * *

 

They dragged Steve into a huge echoing room, bare concrete walls opening into other echoing rooms, and flung him to the floor at the feet of an ordinary looking man in a suit. Bucky didn't recognise him, but he recognised his eyes. They were cold, arrogant, absolutely assured that everything their owner did in this world was right.

They weren't alone, surrounded by the team who'd snatched Steve off the street, other armed personnel arrayed around the room.  

"Steven Grant Rogers, son of Sarah Rogers and Joseph Rogers. You're an artist, I believe, spend your time painting pictures for people without the talent to paint them themselves."

Steve didn't respond, just glared up at him.

"Allow me to introduce myself." He stood over Steve, not even acknowledging Bucky, who was crouched beside Steve, one hand on his shoulder, squeezing, he knew, hard enough to hurt. But he couldn’t let go, couldn’t make himself loosen his grip. "My name is Alexander Pierce and I would very much like to know how you ended up with my Asset."

Steve scowled up at him, pushed himself up onto his elbows, tried to rise but a booted foot shoved him back down and Bucky could do nothing. "He's not yours."

"That is unfortunately correct, for the moment, but it's going to be rectified quite soon."

"Fuck you," Steve ground out and one of the men slapped him across the face, making his head snap back, a trickle of blood running from his nose. Bucky snarled, nothing human in the sound, and for the first time Pierce looked at him.

"Someone move it, please." There were hands on him, pulling him away from Steve, Steve who reached out for him, but there were hands on him, too, and Bucky couldn't resist, couldn't even fight back, because they were servants of HYDRA and that would be acting against them. They let him go, only one retaining a grip on his metal arm, enough to hold him away from Steve, because the one holding him was a servant of HYDRA. 

"Why didn't you just kill me?" Steve asked, wiping the blood from his nose, and Bucky wanted to scream at him not to say things like that. But he knew, he knew where this had to end, even as he desperately tried to deny it.

"I considered it, I actually had a man ready to go, but I decided to be generous. To give you a chance to have your death mean something." Pierce smiled, calm and reasonable. "You are, after all, a human being. You deserve that chance. You _are_ going to die. But I'm going to give you a choice. You can die knowing you took a step forward, that your death helped push the world towards order. Or you can die for nothing, let it be meaningless and wasteful." 

His expectant look at Steve was met with stony silence.

"HYDRA built in a, let's call it a cancellation clause, when we created the Asset. Can't have a weapon only one person can ever use, and if the only option is killing the holder, well, that gets problematic." Pierce nodded at one of the black clad men and he disappeared through a door, reappeared holding Bucky's bottle. Bucky flinched at the sight of it. "Repudiate it. Send it back to its bottle. I'll claim it and you can have the satisfaction of knowing you did something important before you died."

"He doesn't belong to you. You can't treat him like this. You need to set him free."

"I'm going to take it either way." Pierce was looking at Steve curiously, like he was an anomaly Pierce hadn't quite figured out. "In the end it's not going to make a difference."

"It does to me. And it does to Bucky. I'm not giving him to you."

Pierce sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm disappointed. But not surprised." He held out his hand and one of the black clad men put a gun in it and then hauled Steve to his feet. Pierce pointed the gun at Steve's head. "Any last words?"

Bucky was frantic, his mind was screaming and he couldn't do anything, he couldn’t get away from the man holding him, he couldn't do anything he couldn't do anything he couldn't act against a servant of HYDRA he couldn't...

Steve's eyes locked onto his, calm and clear and very blue. Bucky went still, stared back with a wild desperation as Steve spoke. "I love you. I'm sorry I can't save you. But I love you so much. Just, remember that, okay?"

The words touched off a firestorm, roaring through him, twisting with his rising, helpless rage.

The gun didn't go off. Pierce was lowering it, face twisted in disgust. "Now I'm just offended. It's a thing. They're part of the reason this world is slipping into disorder. The magical races, the abominations, their very existence is an affront to everything HYDRA stands for." Pierce put the safety on the gun. "I've changed my mind. Kill him slowly."

The man in black kicked Steve's feet out from under him, another joined in, wrestling him to the floor as Steve fought. Bucky heard the dull sound of bones breaking, saw Steve's wrist snap, his skin go bone white, heard the grunt of pain as he refused to scream and he was helpless, helpless to save him because everyone in this room was a servant of HYDRA.

Everyone except him.

Time slowed, stopped.

He was frozen in a moment of perfect singing silence. Steve was pinned to the floor, fighting, still fighting, the bright flash of a blade held above him.

Rage and desperation and terror slammed through him, leaving perfect clarity in their wake.

 _He_ was not a servant of HYDRA. He was Steve's servant. Bound to him by chains of magic ancient when HYDRA was newly born.

He could act against _himself._

For the first time since his capture in the frozen north of the world he reached for that ancient bond, embraced it.

The metal arm they had affixed to his body was forged of magic and metal. Calling on his powers, his cursed, muted powers, knowing this was utter desperation, he summoned a crude axe, crafted of metal and magic and fire, and he lifted it high.

With all his strength and all his will he slammed the blade into his left shoulder where metal joined flesh.  He existed only in _this_ moment, in _this_ second; in this moment, in this second, he was not acting against a servant of HYDRA. 

The universe listened. The universe agreed.

The explosion of light and heat killed the man who'd been holding him in place. The dead metal dropped to the floor, dissolving into blood and ash and smoke as it fell, the pieces in his body dissolving to nothing. He swallowed his scream, agony driving through him. Spun his power to heal his flesh as HYDRA's bindings burned away, leaving only the old binding, the first binding, linking him to Steve.

His power, his true, unfettered power, was free.

Rage painted the room red and he moved, blindingly fast, intercepted the blade about to slice into Steve. Tore it from the man's hands. His smile was feral, teeth bared.

"You can't—" was all the man got out before Bucky was in motion.  He was death, faster than thought, and even one-armed he brought ruin down upon them. Rendered every living thing that was _not-Steve_ into blood and bone.

No one was trying to kill Steve, no one cared about him any longer in the face of their destruction, but he was still at risk from errant blades, from stray bullets, as HYDRA tried to save their lives. But nothing touched him. Bucky was there, between him and danger, and _nothing_ touched him, not even a drop of blood.

***

Steve knew he should be horrified. People were dying. Bucky was tearing them apart. But he wasn't. These were the people that enslaved Bucky. But he didn't look. He knelt in the centre of the room and locked his eyes on his knees, hand wrapped around his broken wrist, chest tight, body throbbing with pain, and he did not look. 

Finally, the room fell silent, the only sound Steve's harsh breaths. They were joined by the sound of footsteps, sticky as Bucky walked across the blood slicked floor. His shadow fell across Steve. Steve didn't look up. He wasn't afraid. His heart was pounding and he couldn't look up but he wasn't afraid. There was nothing in him that knew how to be afraid of Bucky.

Bucky crouched in front of him and Steve had no choice but to lift his head. He meant to meet Bucky's eyes but his gaze caught on the empty left shoulder and stuck there. It was smooth, the skin silvery pale, almost gleaming, visible through the tattered sleeve of his blood-soaked shirt.  The metal arm was gone.  Convulsively swallowing, his eyes darted up, meeting Bucky's. "Your arm."

His eyes were glittering with specks of gold, his face was spattered with blood, and there was nothing even remotely human there. "It was never mine," he said and placed his now clean hand against Steve's cheek. It was warm and Steve closed his eyes and leaned into it as he felt Bucky's power flow through him, healing his wrist, his face, soothing his breathing, every ache and bruise fading.

When he opened his eyes, the room was empty, all evidence of the slaughter gone, and Bucky was clean of blood. Bucky's hand curved around the back of his neck and Steve tipped forward to lean his forehead against his chest. "How?"

"They bound me never to act against a servant of HYDRA. I wasn't their servant anymore, I was yours. So I acted against myself."

"You cut the arm off." He couldn’t keep the horror-tinged awe out of his voice, couldn’t help lifting his hands to wrap his fingers tightly in the front of Bucky's shirt.

"I didn't know if it would work, but I was desperate." His fingers curled convulsively and he pulled Steve closer.

"Does that mean you're free?"

"Of HYDRA."

Steve pulled back to look at him.

"I'm back to being a genie like in the stories," he said gently. "That means you have three wishes now."

Steve's heart stuttered and hope welled up in him. With a shaky smile he carefully cupped Bucky's face in his hands.  "There's only one thing I want," he said. "All of my wishes, all of them, I want you to be free."

Bucky's eyes went wide and the colour melted into pure gold.

There should have been explosions of light, the universe should have trembled, the very heavens shifting in their spheres.

Instead, the bottle crumbled to dust.

***

Bucky felt it flow through him, golden and warm, pushing out through his skin, scouring him clean of the chains placed on him so long ago in the frozen north of the world.

He was free.

Genies were creatures of fire, of flame, and he felt it thunder through him. The physical body into which he'd been forced dissolved into light. Freed from the physical, he laughed and spun around Steve, whose expression was pure wonder as he was surrounded by Bucky's true form. He had substance enough to flow across Steve's skin like water and he poured warmth and joy into him before he twisted away and leapt towards the ceiling, disappearing from Steve's view.

He was not precisely in this dimension, but not precisely gone. He wouldn't leave Steve alone in this place but he had to journey forth into the realms of his kind, where he had not been for over a thousand years.

There was no longer a chain binding them together, but Bucky was still aware of Steve, still had the link he'd placed on him. He felt Steve's frosted edge of sadness as he stared up at the ceiling.  Knew some small part of him wondered if Bucky would return.

It was both revelation and not when he realised he would always return for Steve.  Steve had set him free, had been setting him free from the first day he'd summoned him, all unwitting, from the bottle.

Bucky paused, spun around, and dove back towards Steve. It was easy, with his powers fully restored, to gather the physical body around him once more. It wasn't a surprise when it manifested exactly as it had been, with only a single arm.  This body had grown too used to having only one arm that was truly its own. It would be simplicity to create a new body, to spin a fresh physical manifestation out of magic and power, but that wouldn't be _him_ , it wouldn't be Bucky, who Steve had named, who Steve knew. It wouldn't be the body that knew Steve, that had learned him, and Bucky wasn't prepared to risk it.  He would live with this body.

"Bucky!" Steve was scrambling to his feet. Bucky smiled, the joy of his freedom still humming through him, and his eyes were molten gold.  Steve was scrambling over to him, leaning in to hug him, but he hesitated. Bucky wrapped his arm around Steve's waist and held on tight and Steve put both his arms around Bucky and pressed his face into his shoulder. "You came back."

"What, did you think I wasn't going to?"

"Maybe."

"Idiot. I wouldn't leave you here."

Steve's laugh was muffled and he rubbed his forehead against Bucky's chest. Turned his head to look at Bucky's left shoulder. "It's still gone. I thought..."

Bucky glanced over at it. "It's how this body remembers being.  I could create a new body, one with both arms, but this is the body that knows you. This is the one you know. I don't really want to change that." He tapped his forehead against Steve's. "Ready to go home?"

"Yes." Steve suddenly sounded exhausted and Bucky held him close.

"Close your eyes."

Steve closed his eyes and Bucky carried them through the dark.

 

* * *

 

The apartment was torn to pieces. HYDRA had ripped it apart in their search for the bottle. Steve didn't have time to do more than stare in shock before Bucky restored it.

"Thanks." Steve slowly walked around the apartment, gently touching things, and Bucky leaned against the table, watching him closely.

"Steve." He looked up. "You okay?"

"No?" he ventured. "Maybe. I don't know.  They almost took you and I almost died. All those people did die and I think I'm glad they're dead. And you're free," he added, with a kind of awe. "It's a lot to take in."

Instead of replying, Bucky pushed off the table and held out his arm. Without hesitation, Steve walked into him and wrapped his arms around Bucky. Bucky hugged him tightly, his one arm firm across Steve's back. He held him until he felt the tension melt away, until Steve was relaxed against him. "It's never going to happen again. You're as safe as I can make you and I have all my power now."

"That means you're safe, too. Doesn't it?" Steve asked.

"I know what the magic feels like. I won't be caught in a bottle again." Bucky's voice was an eloquent mixture of threat and promise and Steve breathed a quiet sigh of relief.  They stood together, Bucky's chin resting on Steve's hair, until he leaned back so he could see Steve's face. 

"There's something else." Steve made a quiet, questioning noise. "You said you loved me."

"I'm sorry." Steve looked away. "That's not, it's not something you have to worry about."

Bucky let go of Steve long enough to put a finger over his mouth and say, "Hush," before folding his arm around him once more. Steve fell silent and Bucky smiled. "You were about to die and you said you loved me. You said you were sorry you couldn’t save me. That _you_ couldn't save _me._ " Steve's eyes were fixed on the floor. "Look at me?"

When he lifted his head, Bucky carefully, gently, kissed him. It was a very human thing, kissing, but Steve was human, and Bucky wanted to, needed to, speak his language.  It was another part of that strange physical _need_ he'd developed for Steve. Steve was looking up at him with wide eyes. "Bucky?"

"I don't know if I love you," he admitted. "I don't know what that feels like to a human. All I know is that my universe is divided into two parts: you and everything that isn't you. I know you're the only one I want touching me and you're the only one I ever want to touch."

Steve swallowed hard, his eyes bright. "That's sounds a lot like love to me."

"Good." Bucky tipped his head down to kiss him intently, sliding his hand into his hair to hold him close, and Steve pressed up into it, making a noise low in his throat.

Eventually, Steve broke the kiss, shaking his head a little, like he was clearing it. He took a deliberate step backwards, put one hand up against Bucky's chest to stop him from following. "Shouldn't you be out there? Being free?" he asked. "Not back where you were before you found your freedom." 

Bucky put his hand over Steve's where it rested on his chest, wriggled his fingers until they were twined with Steve's. "That's the thing about freedom. It means I get to choose. I will be out there, there's so many things I need to see, so many things I need to do. But I also need you. I want you. I want to be with you, here in this apartment, and out there. I want you to come with me."

"Where?"

"Everywhere."

***

Steve imagined their future: much like their past, but with Bucky gloriously, wondrously free. All his quicksilver wit and his annoying behaviour and his mischief and his protectiveness and everything that made him Bucky. 

Being free to say _shut the hell up_ when he was being an asshole.

Being free to say _I love you._

Being free to love him and be loved, however Bucky felt it, in return.

"Yes."

"Yes?" Bucky's eyes were very gold and his grin was bright and warm.

"Yes," he repeated. "I love you and I need you and I want you, here with me and anywhere you want to take me." He smiled as he leaned up to kiss Bucky, leaning into him, both hands sliding up his back to hold him as tight as he could.  As Bucky's hand cupped the back of his head, he smiled against his mouth and said, "I'm really glad I didn't dream you," and Bucky tipped back his head and laughed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! Thank you so much for reading and for taking a chance on what probably sounded like a pretty strange concept. I hope you enjoyed it! I'm still not sure how my cracky little I Dream of Jeannie AU turned itself into this, but I'm actually kind of glad it did :).


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